AN: Thanks for everyone's wonderful feedback on the last chapter-I appreciate the reviews so much. A few people have asked how Eoghan is pronounced-it's the Gaelic spelling of "Owen" and is pronounced the same way.
Playlist is updated, and music plays another big part of this HUGE chapter (yes, it's over 10,00 words). The song that Esme listens to is "Sweet Euphoria" by Chris Cornell.
Special thanks go to The Very Last Valkyrie for leaving the most amazing review for this story-and ironically, I read her Gossip Girl fic religiously, so that was really sweet to see :) Also, thanks (as always) to my amazing beta, JosieSwan, and my pre-reader Izzzy.
Chapter 19: Private Performances
Esme
Over the next twenty four hours, I learned that once you started to melt, thawing wasn't something you could reverse. Once it started, it gained strength, the momentum carrying me from one moment to the next. The kiss had been the final spark I'd so desperately needed, and though at the time, I'd managed to convince myself—and apparently Carlisle as well—that it was more about Renee and staking a claim than actually wanting him, as dusk passed and night fell, I knew I was wrong.
I'd left the back patio, and had climbed the stairs to my master suite, the lilac silk of the dress rustling in the absolute stillness of my bedroom. I usually liked the quiet; it had always soothed a restless and agitated mind, but now it just exacerbated all the forbidden thoughts, and they echoed far too loudly in the silence.
After changing out of the dress and slipping into a pair of silk pajama pants and matching tank top, I continued digging through my lingerie drawer until I found what I was looking for. The object in question was a crutch that I didn't allow myself to indulge in very often, and I should have known better than to turn to it tonight of all night's, but I was too weak to stay strong in the face of temptation.
I opened the jewel case and popped the CD out, walking over to the CD player in the wall of electronics that faced the small lounge area. I picked the remote off the side table and pressed play, and made sure to turn the volume down a few notches lower than usual. I typically had nobody to hide my indulgence from, but tonight, the last thing I wanted was anyone currently in this house discovering my secret. I'd absolutely never live it down, and because I was still Esme Platt, pride was still—as always—a consideration.
Even at a low volume, the music flowed through the speakers, wrapping me in complex emotions that I'd never understood before, but was beginning to slowly unravel. Tonight, I thought to myself, as I turned the CD case over and saw a much younger Carlisle staring back at me, those blue eyes devastating and completely unchanged, had been the first step in figuring out exactly why I couldn't shake this ridiculous obsession with him.
He didn't know it, of course, but I thought of him all the time. I'd desperately tried for years to drive him from my mind, from my wayward thoughts, but they'd always returned, inevitably, to him. To things he'd said, to looks he'd given me, to the selfless sacrifices he'd made to keep Edward relatively safe and unharmed. I owed him my gratitude, but I was beginning to realize that I'd always given him more.
Listening to him croon likely meaningless words of love had been a crutch for so long. A shameful, hidden fantasy that even though he hadn't even met me when he'd recorded this, it was still about me. He wasn't just singing it; it was a secret love letter to the woman who'd always snubbed him.
I was so caught up in the music, in the lyrics that he didn't mean, that I didn't hear the knock on the door, or it open. I certainly didn't hear his footsteps on the wooden floor, as he walked into my bedroom.
"I'm retired, but you do know that I'd give you a private performance if you asked."
I looked up, startled and instantly humiliated.
I fumbled for the remote, managing to skip to the next track, versus turn off the evidence. Too bad it was far too late to ever cover up the truth now.
I started at him, speechless and mortified, knowing that there had to be something I could say, but for the life of me, I had no idea what it was exactly. It was the very first time in my life as Esme Platt that I had ever been at a loss for words, and of course, the moment came when I needed them the very most. I wanted to wrap myself in them like armor so that intrigued blue-eyed stare couldn't weasel its way any farther into my heart.
"Well, I'll admit," Carlisle said, as he walked farther into the room—clearly deigning to do whatever the hell he wanted—and sat down on my couch, "that was the very last thing I expected to hear when I came to apologize."
I finally found my brain. "Apologize?" I asked, still stupefied, but not silent any longer. "You came to apologize to me? For what?"
"Perhaps apologize is the wrong term. I think I had something more like groveling in mind."
"You were going to grovel," I stated. "Why?"
Carlisle shrugged, throwing his hands up as if even he didn't know. "Hell if I know why. But a beautiful woman kissed me tonight, a woman that I've admired for a long time, and I was stupid enough to question why she'd done it. When in the end, it shouldn't matter one way or the other."
"It matters. It should matter to you." I paused, not sure if I should continue. Esme Platt never would have continued in the past, but I had clearly left that role behind along with what was left of my dignity. "It matters to me," I told him softly.
I couldn't bear to look into his face any longer, because he was gazing at me with a mixture of amused affection and something both caring and terrifying. I wasn't used to people caring about me; I was comfortable and secure with ruling by fear. Love was a nearly foreign, incomprehensible emotion anymore.
"Esme. Look at me." I glanced up, obeying him even though I hadn't listened to anyone but my own mind for the last fifteen years. He was staring intently at me. "I know you're scared. This is a terrifying time. But if you ever want that private performance, know that all you need to do is come to my room and ask." He rose from the couch, and stopped next to me, brushing his fingertips over my cheek. I froze, his touch melting the thin ice of my composure. I hated how easy I was, but I leaned into his warm touch, relishing the feel of being cherished.
"Promise me you'll remember," he murmured as I raised my own hand to brush my fingers over his.
"I'll remember," I told him, and I knew that I would never be able to forget. Because I'd never been able to forget him.
But instead of kissing me again, the way I knew he wanted to—and the way I wanted him to—his fingers slipped from my cheek and he walked away from me, towards the doorway. He turned back, when he was almost out of the room. "Good, because I was always much better live. Goodnight, Esme."
I was left contemplating the ruins of my self-control and what the hell I was going to do with Carlisle. He wouldn't just stay in the neat little compartment I'd fruitlessly tried to relegate him to. Instead, he insisted on barging right through the walls—though my walls, and even through my doors—practically insisting that I notice him. As if I could possibly ignore him.
I switched off the music, annoyed that instead of it calming me, now all it did was remind me of Carlisle's dangerous, naughty offer that he play a private show for me. I would be stupid to take him up on it, I decided. Stupid wasn't even the right word; it would be disastrous of me if I did so.
I finished getting ready for bed, brushing my hair and washing my face, as if this was just every other night in the life of Esme Platt. And technically, it was. Except that my feelings had been sprung from their little cages, and they jumped around inside my skin until I didn't think it could possibly contain them anymore. Fifteen minutes later, I turned the light out and laid in bed, desperately wishing that Carlisle had never ever offered, because I knew, whether I went to him tonight or tomorrow or in six months, eventually I'd break down and ask. And for that, I decided that I had the right to be a little pissed. If he'd never put the idea in my head, I never would have considered it.
Okay, I thought as I turned over restlessly, that was a big fat lie. I'd thought about it. But I had never ever considered actually doing it until he'd made it perfectly clear that he'd be receptive.
More than receptive. He'd invited me.
I turned over again, and decided that it was highly unlikely that sleep of any form was happening in this bed tonight.
Sleep might have been impossible, but that didn't mean I had to give in quite so easily. About half a dozen times, I considered slipping out of bed and walking to Carlisle's room, metaphorically waving a white flag. But I didn't, and by the morning, when I finally climbed out of bed, and went downstairs after dressing, I was in a foul mood.
Whether my mood was terrible because of a lack of sleep or a lack of Carlisle was up for debate, but I wasn't sure it really mattered because regardless of why, I was still tired and I still wanted to bite everyone's heads off.
I sat down at the breakfast table, and poured myself a cup of coffee, praying it would be strong enough to counteract a little of the aching tiredness I felt. I stirred in a spoonful of Splenda and contemplated the fruit that Bridget had laid out.
So far I was alone, but that wouldn't last long. It was already past 8 and I knew Carlisle was an early riser. I just hoped that Renee or Alice or Rose would arrive before he did so that it wouldn't be just the two of us sharing breakfast. That seemed far too intimate and too much like we'd spend the night together, though we hadn't and the evidence of that lack was crawling under my skin nearly like a live, voracious entity. I forced my shoulders to relax, and I sat back, sipping my coffee. I needed to focus not on Carlisle the man, but on Carlisle the manager. He was here for a reason, and that was to get my son back.
Sure enough, Carlisle the manager walked into the breakfast room a minute later, wearing a pair of perfectly fitted dark gray trousers and a blue polo that did positively sinful things for his arms and for his equally blue eyes. I gulped my coffee, and tried to keep a studious, calm expression on my face. This was particularly difficult because there were a multitude of things I wanted to do right now—and none of them involved sitting a whole table away from him.
Focus, Esme, focus, I chanted to myself. Think of Edward. Think of the Red Hands. I glanced over at Carlisle's smiling face as he approached the table, and decided nothing less than the big guns was appropriate. Think of Eoghan.
"Good morning," I told him, pleased that my voice sounded just as it ought. I might be a wreck, but outwardly, I was still the exact same Esme Platt.
"Morning," he said with another bright, blinding smile at me. "Did you sleep well?" He pulled out the chair next to mine, and I couldn't help tensing. He needed to stay on the other end of the table; was he trying to torture me?
"Wonderfully," I lied. "And you?"
I thought I saw an extra twinkle in those devastating eyes, but I looked away before I could make sure. That way, I told myself firmly, lay disaster. That way lay ruin. I needed to stay strong and in control. Just because I was trying to turn over a new Esme leaf didn't mean that he had to know he nearly had me eating out of the palm of his hand. A new Esme didn't necessarily mean a slutty Esme.
I had only ever been intimate with one man, and that had been so long ago, I'd thought all those feelings had withered and died inside of me, but with Carlisle's appearance, and then his kiss, they'd roared to annoying life. I decided that I'd liked them better dead.
They were neater and easier and altogether more helpful to my rapidly-fraying self-control.
"Oh, I slept well. A little music always puts me right to sleep." I couldn't miss his wink this time, it was practically staring me in the face. I swallowed hard and took another long sip of coffee, praying that it would do more than energize me. I needed it to remind me who I was and that I didn't have sexual affairs with unfairly-gorgeous ex-musicians who managed my son.
Son. Edward. Yes. I could still focus. Maybe.
"When does Marcus arrive?" I asked in a brisk business-like tone, needing us to change the subject to something more conducive to me not throwing myself at him and begging him to extinguish these annoying feelings he aroused in me.
"This morning," Carlisle answered, buttering a piece of toast. Helpless in the thrall of this stupidly beautiful man, I watched as his strong white teeth bit into the bread and I thought I might perhaps be losing my mind, because I'd never before wanted to be a piece of toast.
"Excellent," I said self-consciously, hoping he was not aware of my wayward thoughts—and what he was not wearing in them.
"Truthfully," I continued, "I'm dismayed at how little he seems to respect me. Hopefully he's more effective than he is respectful."
To my annoyance, Carlisle didn't seem upset at all by my words; instead, he seemed more amused than anything else. A smile tugged on the corner of his lips, and I found myself watching his alive, mobile face helplessly, as if I couldn't bear to look away. So much for playing it cool, I lectured to myself, he's going to know exactly how much you want him at this rate.
Except that he already knew. After all, he'd literally caught me listening to one of his old CD's last night. How much more transparent could I get?
"Unfortunately he's not been well-versed in the intricacies of your social structure," Carlisle told me, as he poured more coffee into his cup and then into my own. "I'm sure that once he arrives, and we have a meeting to get him up to speed on the kidnapping, you'll need to appraise him of certain. . .facts, regarding your position."
I thought he might be laughing at me. I wasn't entirely sure that he was wrong to. In the end, did it matter that this Marcus was familiar with the all the salient points regarding the social power that Esme Platt wielded? No. It only mattered that he returned my son to me.
"It doesn't matter," I sighed, "so that will be unnecessary. I just want him to be effective." He was right; my social influence failed when Edward was taken. I couldn't use any of it to get Edward back. At this point, the only tool I had was my money and the reckless ability I had to throw it at the problem until it was fixed .
"If you're sure," Carlisle said.
"I'm sure," I reassured him. "Marcus clearly doesn't care who I am, and in the end, it doesn't make much difference as long as Edward and Bella are safe."
Carlisle leaned back, his eyes growing a little wider with surprise. "Did I just hear Esme Platt say that her social stature doesn't matter?"
He had been poking fun at me. I supposed I deserved it, after all those years of superiority and patronizing, nasty comments about his background and his profession. I didn't like admitting it, but I'd been ridiculous at points. There was nothing like a true crisis of self to put everything into perspective.
"I deserved that," I admitted with a guilty smile. "And I'm sorry, for everything I said to you over the years. You've really done better with Edward; better than probably anyone else could. Better than me, at any rate."
"Until now." Carlisle regarded the fruit cup with a steady gaze, but I could see the anguish buried underneath. He still blamed himself, and maybe there was nothing I could do about that. Maybe there was nothing anyone could do about that, until Edward was back home safely.
"I know." I didn't want to agree with him, to let him think that I blamed him, but I couldn't exactly argue with him. It wasn't the right time to make him face the truth.
Bridget appeared at the doorway, her expression apprehensive. "There's a Marcus at the door, Ms. Platt. He says he's here to see you."
I exchanged confused glances with Carlisle. "I thought the car was picking him up at the airport," I said.
"I thought it was," Carlisle confirmed. "Well, clearly there was some form of miscommunication there."
"Bridget, show him in here. I'm sure he's hungry and will want breakfast."
Bridget gave a quick nod, and disappeared back through the doorway. Carlisle set his coffee cup on the table with a decisive click. "You don't have to say it," I said to him. "We're both thinking the same thing."
"He came so highly recommended," Carlisle said, and this time I could hear the anguished edge to his voice. He hid it well, but he was just as worried as I was about Edward. We had been banking everything on Marcus being the right person to find him, but what if he wasn't? The man couldn't even take simple directions on how to get from the airport to the house.
"It'll be fine," I soothed, reaching for his hand before I remembered that touching him was something I shouldn't be doing. I nearly grabbed my hand back, but before I could, he glanced down at my fingers on his skin, as if he couldn't believe what he was feeling, and then he looked at me with such gratitude and affection and desire that I couldn't bear to pull away.
It felt so amazing to be wanted again; was it any wonder that I was basking in the sensation instead of pushing him away from me? Except that I knew I was over-generalizing. Men had wanted me since Eoghan. I had just never felt any reciprocal feelings before now. And the reason I didn't want to let go of Carlisle's hand really had nothing to do with his feelings at all, and everything to do with my own.
We heard the footsteps long before Marcus appeared in the doorway. I felt an apprehensive jolt of dread, as they neared the breakfast nook, and no matter how weak it was, I gripped Carlisle's hand harder, like a lifeline that I wasn't willing to let go of.
And then, there he was, in the doorway. I couldn't help it. I simply gaped. This was the man who was supposed to save my son? I felt speechless and even more ill-prepared than I had the night before, when Carlisle had caught me listening to his music.
My fingers tightened on Carlisle's as I looked into the face of someone who looked like a GI Joe figurine come to life. His hair was shorn in the most precise crew cut I'd ever seen, and his camouflage pants were so flawlessly creased, I was fairly sure he'd ironed them this morning. As he took in his surroundings, the dark beady eyes darting around the room as if he was memorizing every stick of furniture and every exit, his expression remained absolutely stoic. Like he wasn't impressed at all. Which just set me on edge, though I knew it was incredibly stupid for his lack of appreciation for my interior decorating skills to annoy me.
"Good morning. You must be Marcus. I'm Carlisle Masen. Welcome to Hyannis Port." In a bizarre turn of events, Carlisle apparently remembered his manners better than me, because he stood, offering his hand to Marcus.
"Yes. Hello," Marcus said in clipped tones, as if he couldn't even be bothered with social niceties. And I supposed that he couldn't be; after all, he probably spent most of his spare time ironing his cargo pants.
"This is Edward's mother, Esme Platt," Carlisle said, turning to me. "She owns this house."
I thought this might be Carlisle's way to informing Marcus that proper respect was due, but then this man had already proved that he had very little respect for my position. Whether that lack of respect would extend to me personally remained to be seen. Honestly, I wasn't holding out much hope.
I stood slowly and extended my hand, determined to be the bigger person. I was the great Esme Platt, renowned hostess and society leader. Marcus was only an ex-military operative who'd taken one too many shots of testosterone.
"It's very nice to meet you," I lied. "Thank you for coming all the way to Hyannis Port to meet with Carlisle and I."
He didn't shake my hand, but instead left it hanging out there, unacknowledged. I bristled, it dropped back to my side. I'd never been treated so rudely, even by some of my society rivals who went out of their way to be awful.
Marcus turned to Carlisle, and though his expression had not unfrozen one iota, I was familiar enough with the masks people wore to understand that he thought I was a complete waste of air. To behave in such a way towards the money behind the operation was either excessively cocky or just stupid. I tried to figure out which as he spoke to the man next to me.
"This will be our base of operations," he said. "I'll need a room set aside for our command center. It will need two telephone lines and a connection to high speed internet."
I'd already foreseen this request, and had set aside one of the lounges for the purpose. I'd never believed that it would be needed for that purpose, but when I'd gutted and remodeled the house five years ago, I'd known it paid to be prepared. Now that was paying off. Marcus could be isolated in that room and I wouldn't ever need to interact with him.
I took a deep breath and reigned my temper in so it wouldn't be evident in my voice. "I've had a room set aside for your use. It should have everything you require, and if you need any additional supplies, you can let me know. Would you like some breakfast before I show you?"
Marcus turned towards me slowly, his eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, as if he couldn't believe my persistence. "Breakfast?" he sneered, glancing at his watch—a high tech, stainless steel number that looked like the watch equivalent of a Swiss Army knife. "It's already oh-eight hundred hours."
As if people all over the world didn't eat breakfast at eight o'clock in the damn morning. I bit back the retort—after all, I hadn't achieved the position I had by saying any of the sarcastic comments that I thought with increasingly regularity. "We civilians don't feel the need to rise at the crack of dawn," I told him stiffly.
I felt Carlisle squeeze my hand, and I glanced down in surprise. I'd consciously forgotten we were even holding hands; the warm pressure of his skin on mine had faded to a reassuring glow in the back of my mind. He was warning me to behave myself, but I'd toed the line for so long, and this man—this employee—was wearing on my last nerve.
"I've already eaten," Marcus informed me, with patronizing patience.
I snapped, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and for too long. "I don't think you comprehend," I told him haughtily, with a voice that sounded as if it had just spend the last millennium in a deep freeze, "but I'm Esme Platt. I know this doesn't carry much weight with you, so I'll let you in on a little secret. When I ask you to sit down at my table and share a meal with me, you don't say no."
Carlisle's fingers tightened around mine, and I glanced over at him, to see a barely concealed smirk on his face. He might not be able to publically support my little war against Marcus, but he was definitely appreciating the show. As for me, I couldn't deny that I enjoyed a well-constructed, well-timed insult.
Marcus stared me down, his dark, beady eyes not blinking. I met his reptilian stare with one of my own, and gave myself a pat on the back when he broke first. Like they always do, I thought to myself. Men who thought women were weak had clearly never met a woman like myself.
"Fine," he said belligerently, sitting down in an empty chair across from Carlisle and I. "I suppose I could use a cup of coffee."
"Excellent," I said with false sincerity. Just half an hour ago, I'd wanted a third wheel so that this breakfast with Carlisle felt less like an intimate meal, but perhaps the last person I wanted in this capacity was Marcus, though he did fulfill the role admirably. After all, it was impossible for this to be a romantic meal when GI Joe was glowering from the other side of the table.
I was just pouring him a cup of coffee when Renee entered the room. She had just seen him when the possibilities struck me like a bolt of lightning. I had never even considered the prospect of Renee attaching herself to our resident ex-military operative, probably because I'd been too threatened by her obvious attraction to Carlisle, but considering her erstwhile husband, it was safe to say that Renee didn't have standards of which to speak of.
"Hello there," she trilled, her voice grating on my already . "I'm Renee Swan."
And of course, even though I'd known this would happen—had known it ever since Renee waltzed into the breakfast room, looking impossibly beautiful and at least ten years younger than she actually was—Marcus looked up at her and I saw that frigid expression melt like wax right off his face. I rolled my eyes. If he could have sunk lower in my estimation, the awestruck way he was looking at Renee now would do it.
"I'm Marcus," he told her, as she slid into the chair next to his.
From the way that Renee clasped her chest—where her heart should have been, if she hadn't had it surgically removed along with all the wrinkles on her face—I knew she was going to play up 'you're going to save my daughter' angle. She was nothing if not utterly predictable.
"My daughter, Isabella, was taken along with Edward. Of course, I warned her not to become involved in the whole music scene, but she never did listen to me."
I would have to be deaf, dumb and stupid to not catch the insinuation in Renee's tone. It appeared that she'd tired of playing along, and was ready to fight back. Normally, I would have enjoyed the challenge she'd issued, but suddenly I was sick and tired of playing cat and mouse and constantly being forced to fight off potential usurpers. As if they could ever be Esme Platt; even I couldn't be Esme Platt anymore.
I let go of Carlisle's hand and stood. "I have some business to tend to," I said frostily to the table at large. "Carlisle, you're aware of the arrangements I've made for Marcus. You're more than capable of showing him. I'd appreciate hourly reports on your progress."
I turned to go, and was nearly out of the room when Carlisle's phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through Renee's simpering giggles. I stopped only when I heard his words.
"Emmett. My god."
The cup I'd been cradling in my hands slipped from my numb grasp, and crashed onto the floor, shattering into a million shards of priceless porcelain. I was at Carlisle's side in an instant, my fingers gripping his arm like claws. I leaned down, suddenly not at all aware of the faint musk of his cologne or the unique scent of his skin, and I prayed feverishly that this was good news and not bad.
"You need to stop pacing," Carlisle told me, as I wore a pathway in the carpet in my office.
Objectively, I knew he was right. This was expensive, top-of-the-line carpeting—not that cost was something I typically worried about; I had more money than I could possibly spend in one lifetime—but the very act was a physical manifestation of just how much self-control I'd relinquished.
"You're not going to feel any worse if you sit down," he continued from his seat on the couch next to my desk. We were in my office, waiting—some of us more patiently than others—for Emmett's arrival.
"He didn't say anything to you? Anything else?" I asked, tensely, not returning to the chair I'd barely been able to occupy since the phone call that had changed everything.
"Esme," Carlisle said patiently, for what was probably the fiftieth time in the last hour, "you were standing right there, listening to the whole exchange. There's nothing he said that you didn't hear."
"Tell me again," I begged unashamedly. In the face of what had happened to my son, begging seemed like very small beans. I would do a lot more to see Edward returned to me safely.
"He apologized, first off. And then he told me that Edward and Bella were relatively unharmed, and that he'd escaped. And that he wanted to help us stage a rescue."
I let out a ragged breath that I hadn't known I was holding. "Relatively unharmed? What does he mean by 'relatively'?"
"I can't tell what he meant. Unfortunately he didn't explain himself. But he should be here soon, and then he explain it to both of us."
It seemed like an eternity since Carlisle had shut his cell phone off, but it had only been fifteen minutes, I realized with surprise as I glanced at the watch on my wrist. "You managed to peel Renee off Marcus and tell her to get Rosalie up?"
Carlisle nodded. "I did. I know you're in bad shape, but I think you're going to have to tell her. I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I can."
"I can do it," I told him through stiff, numb lips. "I think it's better that it comes from me anyway."
"I'll admit, I don't really understand what happened between them," Carlisle said.
I turned on my heel, facing him. I'd barely taken my eyes off the door since we'd come in here. And it wasn't Rose I was waiting for. "You don't? I thought you didn't miss a thing."
He shrugged. "I usually don't. But this came as a surprise. I thought Rose was in love with Edward. No matter how bad of an idea that was."
Usually, when Carlisle said something like this—basically implying that my son wasn't worth falling in love with, he apologized to me. But this time, there was no apology given and I didn't even want one. Edward, no matter what kind of danger he was in, hadn't deserved it. Did it make me a horrible mother to hope that this experience, no matter how terrifying, could maybe change his perspective on life? So much, I wanted him to be able to mature emotionally, to be able to give as well as take. To maybe fall in love someday, with a woman who would make him want to be a better man.
"I'm surprised you didn't realize how Emmett felt about her. I only saw the two of them together twice, and I thought it was rather obvious." I also remembered feeling, at the time, that Emmett was clearly wishful thinking if he ever thought he could compete with Edward—even if Edward was a misogynist who openly cheated on Rosalie. Edward, for all his inabilities to emotionally connect with people, seemed to hold a fascination for them. He could draw women in with just his magnetic appeal, and then leave them in thrall as long as he wished.
The door opened and I jumped, my heart in my throat, as Rose's blonde head appeared. "Esme, Renee said you wanted to talk to me?"
"Come in, Rose," I said, trying to find a calm tone of voice I could use to tell her. But it was a useless exercise; I wasn't even close to calm and I couldn't pretend any longer.
Her blue eyes grew troubled as she walked in, impossibly beautiful and young in jeans and a simple white t-shirt. My hands trembled as I clasped them together. "Carlisle had a phone call this morning, when we were eating breakfast. It was Emmett."
I saw her jaw tighten, and her eyes grow glassy, but Rosalie had grown up in the spotlight, and she was very good at presenting a composed front to the world.
"Emmett?" she asked in a very small voice. "He called?"
I nodded. "He's coming here. He managed to escape the Red Hands, apparently, and is going to help us rescue Edward and Bella."
I had to admit, she took it a lot better than I did. Of course, I'd been carrying a cup of coffee, which I'd proceeded to shatter all over the floor. Rosalie's hands were empty, so there was no telling if she would have dropped something. As it was, her long legs just kind of gave out and she collapsed gracefully onto the couch, next to Carlisle.
"They're alright?" she asked.
"According to Emmett, they're 'relatively' okay," I told her, giving Carlisle a quick look as I said it. He could have asked Emmett what relatively meant, and he hadn't. I didn't want to wait to find out what it meant. I wanted to know now.
"Good," she said softly, and her eyes were a mix of confusion and relief and worry. If I hadn't known how she felt about Emmett, I knew now. She might not realize it yet, but she was in love with him. Maybe she had been for a longer time than any of us knew. Maybe Emmett hadn't been insane for thinking that they could be together. Weirder things, after all, had happened.
As if to prove my point, my own gaze shifted to the man next to Rose, and I felt another little piece of the puzzle shift into impossible place. "Are you alright?" I asked her, ignoring the way that my heart clamored with jealousy at how easily Carlisle slipped his arm around her and she burrowed into his shoulder. Even though I knew there was absolutely nothing between them—Rose was like the daughter that Carlisle had never had—I irrationally wanted to be the one he was comforting.
Of course, if he hadn't thought he'd get frozen out, he probably would have tried. In the end, I thought fatalistically, I couldn't help but push him away. It was the way I was constructed. Or it had been, ever since I'd reconstructed myself after Eoghan and that disaster.
"So now all we have to do is wait," I said to the room in general. "Because I'm so good at that."
"You really need to sit down," Carlisle said, echoing his sentiments from earlier. "I told you, pacing isn't going to get him here any faster."
I wondered if he was referring to Edward or Emmett, and decided as I forced myself to sit in my desk chair, that maybe he was referring to both of them, and that he didn't need me to remind him that there was no way I could possibly rest easy until my son was returned to me.
We didn't have to wait very long. Two tense hours later, the door opened again, and it was Emmett.
He stood there, his clothes dirty and travel-rumpled, and his eyes repentant, and I thought for a split second, that he was waiting for us to pass judgment on him, on what he had done to my family.
Then Rose was off the couch and she had flung herself into his arms. He was so taken aback by her sudden reaction, that the weight of her body nearly toppled them both over, before he steadied himself with a hand on the door.
As I watched Rose and Emmett, their arms wrapped around each other, giving and taking love and affection and forgiveness, I couldn't help but glance over at Carlisle. He was staring at me, too, his expression utterly inscrutable.
I had to look away, before he was able to read everything I felt in my thoughts; all the impossible sacrifices I had made, every way I had betrayed my own feelings, and the desperation I felt to be with me, for him to feel and know the real Esme.
Finally, Rose pulled away from Emmett, though her arm looped around his waist, as if she couldn't bear to let him go. They walked over to where I sat, and I tried to swallow back the sudden tears as he looked at me with those guilty dark blue eyes. "Esme, I'm so sorry. I betrayed you. I betrayed Carlisle. . ." he started in, but I interrupted him. There was no point in going over every way that he had broken our trust. He was here now, and he wanted to help us. That was enough for me, and I had a feeling that it would be enough for Carlisle too.
"Just tell me how Edward is. How they are," I begged. "And for the love of god, what you meant by 'relatively' unharmed."
"They're physically fine," Emmett explained. "Perhaps a bit mentally battered. But mostly fine."
"Thank god," I said, relief flooding my system, causing the tears I'd been holding in check to finally overflow, as I reached out to grip Emmett's hands. "Thank you."
He gripped them tightly, and I knew then he would do just about anything to get my son back to me. His sense of honor was strong, regardless of what he had done, and I found myself forgiving him.
"I'll take you to Marcus. We'll need to make some plans," Carlisle said, breaking the moment. Esme, will you be alright?"
Concern was shadowing Carlisle's face, and I knew he was worried about me, worried because he knew that it took extreme emotional trauma to cause me to break down in tears, but I waved him away with a forced, watery smile. "I'll be fine. Or I will be when you're able to get to Edward and Bella. That's the number one priority right now; not me."
"I'll stay with her," Rose announced. "And Alice should be here any minute."
"Renee is telling her about Bella and the rescue," I said. "But yes, I'd appreciate that, Rose. I don't feel much like being alone right now."
"Of course you don't want to be alone," she said, taking my hand from Emmett's, and pulling me to my feet. "I know just the thing to keep you occupied."
I spent the afternoon by the pool with Alice and Rosalie. Their youthful energy and passion for their new joint project kept me distracted, and for that I was grateful. It had been a long, long time since I'd ever passed away such an idle afternoon, lying by the pool, soaking up the sun, and sipping fruity drinks topped with frilly pink umbrellas.
It was a surprisingly lighthearted afternoon, but I saw a shadow pass over Rose's face more than once and I knew she was worrying about Emmett and what would happen between them. I almost asked her how she felt about Emmett's abrupt departure and if she felt she could forgive him for not confiding his troubles to her, but there was something haunted in her eyes that made me not mention it. Alice too, glanced over at the house more than once, and I knew she, like me, was desperately curious for news.
If I hadn't needed the distraction so desperately, I would have felt guilty at how little I'd managed to accomplish, at how much I'd enjoyed Alice and Rose's laughter and their conversation while Edward and Bella languished in a dark room in some house up north.
But I refused to let the guilt creep in. Guilt and shame had ruled so much of my life, both before and after Eoghan, and I was sick to death of letting them control my life. I was in control now, and I refused to feel bad that instead of worrying myself sick over Edward—which I had been doing for years now—I was actually having a pleasant afternoon. I'd already done everything I could to save him; the rest was up to Emmett, Carlisle and Marcus.
That particular fact was driven home when, sometime later the afternoon, after the sun had begin to sink low over the trees, when a shadow passed over my inert body, and I opened my eyes to see Carlisle standing over me, and Alice and Rosalie gone.
I forced myself not to grab for my swimsuit cover-up. If Carlisle wanted to stare at my body, then who was I to stop him? Yes, it was a two piece suit, but it did cover all the necessary parts—after all, Esme Platt would never wear a bathing suit that was indecent.
"Yes?" I asked, sitting up, and casually reaching for the filmy white cover-up, wrapping it around my body. "Do you have news?"
He'd sent text messages to my phone every hour, as I'd requested, but there'd been very little progress to report. Mostly he'd stated that they were working on a rescue plan with the information that Emmett was able to provide and the resources Marcus had gathered.
Apparently, Carlisle's presence was the evidence that the plan had been formed, and it was now time to inform me how they were going to rescue my son and Bella Swan.
"More than news," Carlisle said, sitting on the lounge chair opposite mine. He rested his elbows on his bent knees. "We have a plan that we'll be executing tomorrow morning."
He looked tired, I thought, as I slipped my sunglasses up, the dark circles underneath his eyes evidence of the stress and the strain he'd been under since Edward had been taken. I never should have kissed him, I told myself for millionth time since I'd done it, I should have left him alone. He had enough cares to worry about right now, without me adding to them. Except that right now, I wanted to do more than kiss him, more than simply wipe away all the strain on his face—I wanted to turn his world inside out and show him just how much I wanted him. I wanted to go to him and tell him that it was him I wanted. I didn't care about showing Renee up anymore; I didn't care about staking my claim. As if there would be any question of him ever showing even the remotest interest in Renee Swan. Despite all the comments I'd made about him over the years, I knew Carlisle was classy to the marrow of his bones. I never would have let him manage Edward otherwise.
"Tomorrow morning," I repeated, desperately trying to ignore the jumpy way my nerves reacted to the news. I should be thrilled that it was happening so soon, but all I felt was a horrible gnawing fear and anxiety that the rescuers would find something other than Edward and Bella, alive and well.
Carlisle nodded. "I assume you're going with them," I said, more to break the silence than to extract information from him. I knew he would go; there would be nothing that could ever keep him away. Eoghan might have been his biological father, but Carlisle was the father who was there every day. The father who refused to give up on him even when none of us were even sure there was a redeemable cell in his body.
"You know I am," he said, in a gently chiding voice—as if he knew I was trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.
"I know," I told him awkwardly, toying with my sunglasses, suddenly aware that I was not wearing nearly enough clothes. The hot, edgy feeling was back underneath my too-tight skin, and I wanted to see what would happen if he tried unleash it. But that, I told myself firmly, was completely off-limits. There were times and places for that, even if I was to do it, and this definitely was not one of those.
"Emmett feels awful," Carlisle added. "You were right. There won't be any charges. I wouldn't hear of them, and he says that Edward doesn't seem that angry."
I wanted to laugh, and I wanted to cry as I thought of my son and how much he'd wanted to know the men who'd worked so closely with his father. "He was probably glad," I said. "That would be like Edward."
Unspoken between us was the fact that Edward, once he got to know the people who'd taken him, probably couldn't wait to get far enough away from them. I'd felt the same way as Edward once upon a time; I'd been absolutely fascinated with the Red Hands at first, when Eoghan had finally told me what they stood for and fought for, but as I'd grown closer to him, I'd realized that while their intentions might have been pure at first, they'd become tangled and corrupted. The Red Hands might pretend to be freedom fighters, but at base, they were dangerous criminal masterminds who ultimately cared more about themselves than Ireland's freedom. I'd never wanted to tell Edward this fact, because he'd placed his father on such a noble pedestal, and I didn't think he'd ever have an opportunity to learn differently.
"Well he's learned the truth now," Carlisle said softly, "and from what Emmett said, it seems like he's doing alright coming to terms with it. Maybe this whole experience will teach him something he's been needing to learn for years. Maybe, you and him will finally be able to mend that fence I've been trying to help you build."
For a moment, I almost made a disparaging remark about any kind of real reconciliation being impossible—a rote answer that I'd started using because it hurt too much to hope for something I knew wasn't going to happen any time soon—but then I decided that I'd been taking the easy way out for too long. It was going to happen this time, I decided, because the worst possible thing had happened to the two of us, and God willing, Edward was going to come home safely. We were finally going to put all the stupid disagreements behind us, because I wasn't going to take no for an answer anymore. We would work it out because I was Edward's mother and he was my son, and I couldn't bear any more of this animosity between us.
"Yes," I told Carlisle decisively. "And I don't hope. Now he'll know what I know—everything that I know. And that will change everything."
"Good," he said softly, reaching out to take my hand. "Nobody is more glad than me to hear it. I know you've both hurt over this."
If I was to believe his expression, he'd hurt too over it—he'd hurt because I hurt. Which seemed wildly improbable. Maybe, he was just madly empathetic.
Or maybe, I thought, it was something else entirely.
"Are you hungry?" he asked me, breaking the silence that had fallen between us, as I looked out across the tranquil blue of the pool. "It's nearly dinnertime."
"I can have Bridget whip something up," I began to say, but Carlisle cut me off.
"Alice and Renee went into town. Emmett and Rose are cloistered off somewhere. Marcus is making extra preparations, and I think his soul might shrivel from more contact with the infamous Ice Queen of Hyannis Port."
"Oh," I said awkwardly. "So that leaves me and you."
He nodded, and I wondered how long I'd be able to be with him, in the same room, before I told him that he was right, that he needed to give me a private performance. I decided eating dinner alone with him would be a very bad idea that would only end in disaster.
"I'm sorry," I said as apologetically as I could muster, "but I have some things I need to tend to. Would you mind terribly if you were on your own for dinner? I'll have Bridget make you something."
Carlisle shrugged. "Not a problem," he said casually, but I swore I could see the truth in those blue eyes of his. He knew why I'd turned him down, and just how terrified I was. My pride smarted, but I couldn't change my mind now. I'd made my bed, now I'd just have to lie in it.
I rose to my feet, wrapping the cover-up tighter around my body. "If I don't see you before tomorrow," I said, far too aware that I was taking the cowardly path right now, "good luck. And be safe."
Carlisle gripped my hand for a beat longer, before letting it go. I knew he didn't want to, and deep down, I didn't want him to, but the Esme that I'd been for twenty years was too loud and too persistent to be ignored. I couldn't do this; not right now, and not with him. Never with him.
"I'll keep you updated."
"Excellent. Well, goodnight then." And I walked away, far too aware that his eyes were following me the whole way back into the house, and that my cover-up was far too translucent. Of course, it could have been made of black wool, and I don't think it could have shielded me effectively enough right then.
I was weakening, he was weakening, and we both knew it. Thank god this was about to come to an end, because I was at the very last bit of my self-control, and I didn't know how much longer I could hold onto it with him so near.
I hid like a coward in my suite, calling down to Bridget to ask her to bring up a green salad and half a sandwich for dinner. While she was arranging the tray on the small table in my room, I was weak enough to give in and ask her what Carlisle had ended up doing for dinner.
"I made him a sandwich too, Ms. Esme," Bridget informed me, and I thought she might have given me a funny look. I told myself that as the hostess, it was my job to make sure that everyone staying here was well taken care of and fed. Except that taking care of Carlisle didn't feel like a job—it felt like something I wanted to do, so he was happy and the worry lines in his forehead eased.
"Excellent," I said dismissively, as if could care less what Carlisle had been up to tonight.
I told myself this over and over, as I sat reading on my private balcony, the late spring air balmy and sweet as dusk fell. But I couldn't concentrate on the words, and after the tenth time reading the same paragraph, I finally shut the book shut with a frustrated groan.
I tried the television next, which was a medium I rarely resorted to, but I felt so anxious and high-strung that I thought it might help me. It didn't. I flipped through the entire range of channels twice, seeing a few programs I'd be interested in watching, but I couldn't stay focused on any single one for more than five minutes.
I was in agony by the time I shut the TV off. That was the only reason, I told myself, that I was resorting to the last thing; the thing that had never failed me. I pulled the CD out of its hiding place in the drawer and turned the sound system on. Carlisle's calming voice spilled out of the speakers, and I leaned back on the couch, willing the music to bewitch and relax me the way it always did.
But tonight, it didn't work. Instead, to my frustration, it only highlighted how much I wanted to talk to him, to let him reassure me, to touch him. To let him touch me.
But if you ever want that private performance, know that all you need to do is come to my room and ask.
Remember, he'd ordered me, and even made me promise that I would. As if I could forget.
He'd known that a time would come when I would only be able to remember, and I would do just about anything to forget what had transpired between us. If I was being brutally honest, it was the invisible thread that wove us together tighter and tighter—each word, each action, the kiss—that was making it impossible for me to forget. The promise was secondary, and it wouldn't have mattered if I'd never made it. I couldn't have forgotten him, and the way he made me feel.
I slumped back on the couch, feeling the sting of defeat. I'd fought long and hard against this, but in the end, it was inevitable. I'd always known, in some dark corner of my mind, that it would end with me giving in.
Once I admitted defeat, I felt numb, and feeling didn't intrude again until I was standing outside his door, my hand poised over the wood.
Panic rushed in and my heart beat erratically, until I was sure he could hear it through the thick door. I felt lightheaded, and I couldn't seem to get enough air in my lungs, but I knocked anyway.
The moment the door opened I discovered that there was someone else inside of me. Another Esme; an Esme who could face this unbearably handsome man, look him in the eye and tell him exactly what I was here for—as if he didn't know.
"Esme, hello," he said with surprise. He clearly hadn't thought I'd do it. That made two of us.
"Carlisle," I said breathlessly, my voice low and husky, the other Esme's voice. "I couldn't sleep. Too anxious. And . . .you did promise me. A private performance."
He regarded me levelly for a moment, as if he was gauging whether I was really asking what he thought I was, before he took my hand and pulled me into the room. The door shut behind me and he stared at me again. I wondered if he wanted me to change my mind. I wondered if he wanted to change his mind. But I didn't get a chance to do so, or even to ask him, because he kissed me hard, pinning me against the door as his lips moved against mine.
His hands slid up my arms, his fingers soft and tender, and I shuddered as they traced the sensitive skin on my collarbone. The tip of his tongue touched mine, and I felt never felt weaker and yet so powerful. Like I could bring both him and me to my knees at the same time.
"Esme," he murmured against my lips like was an incantation, "tell me this is okay. Tell me you're sure."
I didn't trust my voice to tell him. I wasn't sure that old Esme wouldn't find a way to say the words that neither of us wanted to hear. So I showed him with my lips and my tongue and my hands, exploring the ridges and planes of the back that I'd so admired in the clothes I'd bought for him. It was only then that I understood what had even driven that; I'd selfishly wanted to claim him, to mark him as my own, even if I was too afraid to actually admit it to myself. But I'd craved him—his vitality, his strength, his compassion. Things that I'd tried for so long to extinguish in myself in my role as the Ice Queen: the role that Carlisle had never truly believed.
"Love me," I gasped out as his teeth found the path his fingers that traveled. "Please. Make me alive."
He pulled back then, and I was almost too caught up in the moment to see the shock and the desire in his eyes at my words. His hands still on my body, and he simply stared at me.
Then the dam broke, and he lifted me in his arms, as if I weighed nothing more than a twig or a bouquet of flowers, and he buried his face in my neck as he carried me to the bed. "Yes," I heard him groan into the curve of my skin, "yes."
Carlisle never gave old Esme a chance to resurface, as he deposited me on bed gently, with such tender care that I felt the rise of semi-hysterical tears fill my throat. But I wasn't scared or worried or afraid that I'd disappoint him, not the way I'd been my first time with Eoghan. Of course, that had been the very first time ever, but even it hadn't been, I knew I would have still been terrified. Eoghan had been such a big brute of a man, huge and brawny and unaware of his own strength. Carlisle cradled me tenderly, his fingers stroking my skin, peeling away my clothing gently yet insistently. He would lose himself with me, but never so much that he could forget about my safety. To him, I thought with sudden clarity, that was all that mattered.
"You're beautiful," he whispered along the curve of my breast, the shallow rise of my ribcage, the velvet skin of my inner thigh. "Lovely. Exquisite. Perfect." And I believed him, even if I'd never believed a man since Eoghan. There was a ring of truth in his words and in his eyes, and in the way he touched me. I could feel his honesty with a certainty that I thought I'd lost in a world made of shades of gray.
We fit together as if we'd been made for each other, and it seemed mystifyingly right to see my hair sweep along his skin as I settled on top of him, and sank down on his length, breathless and desperate for him. Nothing had ever felt more right than him inside me, and as he pulled me under him, driving us higher, I knew if I was smarter, I would have been scared. I should have been scared of him.
But I wasn't, and I let myself go with him in a way that I never had with the father of my child. I wanted things and took them like they were mine for the taking, and with a final thrust, the world exploded into a million brilliant shards, reflecting the intense blue of Carlisle's eyes.
I wasn't scared until after, until old Esme began to creep back inside of me. Until he pulled me against him, the naked lengths of our bodies damply clinging together, and I felt a sick knot of something begin to form in my stomach. I didn't regret it, exactly, because it had felt too good to wish I hadn't done it, but I couldn't help the fear. The fear that I had followed my heart and yet again, I'd made a mistake.
"Thank you," Carlisle said, pressing a single kiss on my bare shoulder. They were the first words he'd spoken since I'd asked him to love me. I remembered his acquiescence and I hoped he realized that I'd meant the word as a verb—and not as something else entirely.
I should get up now, and tell him so, the old Esme demanded. Clear the air. Make sure he understood that what had just happened was simply physical, the result of too much sexual tension over an unbearably long stretch of time, but I didn't want to move. I was too tired, or I didn't want to leave his arms. Either one, I pushed old Esme's concerns to the side, and promised myself that if he showed any emotional inclination towards me whatsoever that I would have the conversation. But there was no need to have it now. That would only ruin the mood and the lovely night.
Night had fallen, and moonlight streamed into the room, wrapping our bodies in silver ribbons. "I should be thanking you," I said after the long silence. "It's been too long."
"I know," he said, and I was surprised to hear amusement in his voice.
"That's funny?" I asked, in faux-annoyance. I was honestly too relaxed to even consider being annoyed right now. He'd unwound me like a top, until there was nothing left of my anxiety.
"Not really. I'm just. . . .still reeling, I guess. From you showing up at all."
"You did offer," I said, giggling, wrapping my hand around his unusually defined bicep. "You said you'd give me a private performance any time I asked."
He groaned. "Don't remind me. That was such a cheesy line. After I said it, I kicked myself for hours."
"I thought it was cute." And sexy, I mentally added. As if he didn't already know just how sexy I found him.
"I hoped you would," he said, and the aching hope in his voice sent a whole host of warning bells off in my head, but I found that even their clamoring wasn't enough to send me away. Instead, I gripped him tighter in my arms.
"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" I asked. What was occurring tomorrow hung inevitably between us, and I decided it would just be better to face it head on.
"Yes," he said softly. "But I have to have faith. Faith that we'll find him and Bella, and that they'll be alright."
He'd dismantled me, one bit of my mask at a time, and so I let him see everything; more than even he'd seen when he undressed me. "Your faith, it gives me faith. I wouldn't have it if you didn't have yours," I whispered into the warm skin of his arm. "So please, don't lose it."
I almost didn't hear his words, because he said them so quietly. I wasn't even sure he meant me to hear them. "Then, I'll keep it safe. For you."
"Good," I murmured, as my eyes drifted shut.
AN: Yes, that was over 10,000 words. Don't I deserve some major kudos for that beaut of a chapter? I think so.
Next two chapters are ExB-and the title of the next chapter is "The Patron Saint of Lost Causes."