A/N: My thank yous to Team Jazzward for your help with this chapter. xx

DISCLAIMER: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, but if you're here, you knew that already. ;)

-FONO-

The train's whistle, howling in the distance, announces its arrival. I refold my newspaper, finish my cigarette, and walk outside to the platform to wait for Miss Swan's arrival. With no idea what she looks like, my mind has conjured up a variety of women to wear the moniker—most are blondes—a preference by many men, but an occasional redhead blends into the list of possibilities.

As the train, billowing with steam, pulls into the station, I step away from the edge of the tracks, listening to the loud, high-pitched squeal of the brakes. Once the wheels stop, men step down from cars and begin the daunting task of unloading the baggage onto the platform, as the first passengers make their way off the train with their claim tickets ready at hand.

I eye each woman carefully, expecting Miss Swan to be traveling alone, and anticipate helping her with her bags once they are located. An exceptionally large man exits the train, and I overhear him making arrangements with two of the workers who move to another area and begin unloading a number of large trunks and suitcases onto a cart.

I pace back and forth with no one in sight who could be Miss Swan, as everyone seems to be accounted for among the departing passengers. I worry and wonder if I have missed her somehow, and if she is inside the station seeking a ride to the hotel or has taken a moment to use the facilities. Mike's voice echoes in my head as I vow not to blunder this first encounter. A quick pass around the room turns up no one, and I walk back outside, noticing a second cart, which the workers load under the watchful eyes of the beastly man from earlier.

I'm about to give up my search and walk back into the station to inquire about the next train arriving from San Francisco, questioning if Miss Swan is delayed somehow, when the man moves toward the steps of the car, offering his hand to a departing passenger. My curiosity gets the better of me as I wonder who this man is and what kind of wife can have so much luggage for a trip to Chicago.

Wearing a stylish hat similar to one I've seen Mary Alice wear a time or two, her head is tilted down, while she slips a gloved hand into his and slowly descends the stairs. I notice her black, high-heeled shoes as my eyes travel up what little skin is shown of her slender legs. The below the knee suit she's wearing is modest but tailored to fit her body perfectly. The color isn't flashy but a subdued blue, and when she reaches the platform, a huge smile spreads across her painted red lips as she thanks her husband.

"I'll arrange for everything to be delivered to the hotel, then we will be on our way," he tells her.

"Very good. Thank you, Felix. I'll wait inside for the car."

He grins at her praise, looking like a man very much in love with his wife. Maybe they are on their honeymoon.

"As you wish, my dear."

My eyes follow his departure, overseeing the handling of their bags, and when I return them to his wife, she is moving toward my direction near the entrance of the station. She walks with a confidence not many women possess, with her shoulders back and chin up. Every head turns in her direction as she passes, and her eyes scan each face on the platform until they land on mine. She stops in front of where I'm standing, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head expectantly.

I know I should probably apologize for eavesdropping on their conversation or at the very least my staring, and continue my search for Miss Swan, but she breaks the standoff between us.

"Is this your personal entrance or is everyone allowed to use it?" Her tone is clipped and challenging as her lips press together. Her once-friendly disposition is now nonexistent as she waits for my response.

"What?" I ask, confused, looking around, then realize I'm blocking the door. "Oh, my apologies, ma'am. Allow me."

I step back, holding the door wide open, and tip my hat as the man's wife enters the station without so much as an offer of thanks in my direction.

As the door closes, I shake my head at her abrupt change in attitude when responding to me rather than the warmness she exudes toward her husband. "You're welcome," I say to no one, and walk toward the conductor, inquiring about any remaining passengers on the train.

"No, sir. I just finished the walk-through. No one is left on the train."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive."

"Is there any way you can tell me if a passenger boarded in San Francisco? I'm looking for a Miss Isabella Swan."

"Passenger lists are available in the main office behind the ticket counter."

"Great. Thanks."

I'm about to leave the platform when another deep, gruff voice gets my attention.

"You're looking for Isabella Swan?"

I turn around and realize it's the husband from earlier.

"Yes, she was supposed to be a passenger on the train. Did you meet her during your trip? I'm here to drive her to her hotel."

He nods, setting a small bag near his feet. "Only I drive Isabella. Where is your car?"

"On the other side of the building. Why?"

Suddenly, it dawns on me who the woman was exiting the train, and I realize I've already committed a series of errors. The biggest one is thinking of her as Miss Swan; it never occurred to me she could be a Mrs.

Not wanting to upset her husband, as he seems like the type of guy who would be packing heat, I introduce myself, offering my hand. "I'm Edward Masen."

His skeptical eyes shift from my hand to my face. "Where's Mr. Newton?"

"He's at the club, but his car is here. I-I have his car. You're welcome to drive it. I'm sure he won't mind."

The man turns back to the workers. He gives them the name of the hotel where they are staying for delivering their excessive number of bags, which they are loading into the back of a truck that just arrived. If I'm not mistaken, he said, "The Lexington," which also happens to be the hotel where I work.

I wave my hand. "Good call. All of that would have never fit."

The man's eyes narrow at my suggestion. "I'll get Isabella. You wait in the car."

"Right. The car."

He crosses his arms over his chest when I fail to move but babble like an idiot in this guy's presence. I mean he's huge and can probably squash me like a bug, if he desires.

"Masen," he warns, reaching down to grab the bag at his feet.

"Yes. I mean, yes, sir. I'll be waiting." I tip my hat as we depart, walking in opposite directions.

When Mrs. Swan reappears on his arm, she is no less breathtaking as she was when she exited the train. Any man would dream to be the reason for her beaming smile. I consider what that task could entail, but quickly silence those thoughts before my brain gets me in trouble. Mike was right. She is every man's fantasy.

As she approaches, I remind myself she is another man's wife, and open the car door as a peace offering. "My apologies ma'am for my rude behavior earlier."

"Apology accepted."

"My name is Edward Masen. I play the piano nightly at The Twilight Club and Mike . . . I mean, Mr. Newton has asked that I accompany your performance."

Her eyes survey me from head to toe, frowning at my appearance. "We'll see."

My eyes move over her body, probably lingering a little too long in some areas. She seems rather petite with the top of her head barely reaching the height of her husband's shoulder. Mr. Swan holds her gloved hand as she settles into the back seat. Her dark hair peeks out from under her hat, as it's tucked away and neatly gathered at her nape, while her fair skin and delicate features remind me of a porcelain doll.

Without another word from her, he closes her door and nods toward the front passenger seat. "Up there, Masen."

I make one more attempt at diplomacy. "If you would like to sit with your wife, I can drive."

Mrs. Swan gasps. "Felix—"

He holds up his hand, silencing her as his eyes shift in my direction. "I said—"

"I know. I know. You're the only one allowed to drive her. I understand." I wave my hand toward the driver's side. "Forget I ever made the suggestion. I'll just take my seat and trust you know the way."

"I do." He slips the small bag into the back seat next to his wife.

I don't miss his wink at the passenger behind me, and her giggle tells me all I need to know about the happy couple.

When we arrive at the hotel, I exit the vehicle as swiftly as possible and open Mrs. Swan's door. She allows me the courtesy of holding her hand as she exits, and when she is firmly on the ground, she shares her plans.

"We will rehearse twice a day until Saturday—in the morning and afternoon." She pulls a leather folder from her bag, offering it to me. "Here is the music for you to memorize. I trust you will arrive ready to play. I expect you to warm up on your own time, Mr. Masen, not mine. We will begin at nine then break for lunch and continue at one. I don't tolerate tardiness or excuses."

"Edward. My name is Edward. Mr. Masen was my father."

"Don't be late . . . Edward."

A/N: My song inspiration for this chapter is Isham Jones's "It Had To Be You" with lyrics by Gus Kahn from 1924. I posted a link to him playing it with his orchestra on my website, kayrichard dot com, if you're interested in listening. This is where the music inspiration is slightly off with the timeline, and this song wasn't created for another year. However, in my opinion, there could be no other song from this time to accompany the arrival of Isabella Swan, because in Edward's eyes, she's larger than life at this point. There have been many wonderful versions since then, but there's something very special about the distinctive Jazz sounds of the original.

Cars didn't have keys in 1923? That's right. Anyone could hop in and drive them. Early cars were manually crank started, but as engines increased in power and size, more strength was required to start them and electric-starter motors were introduced around this time. While some eventually did have key starts, cars were manufactured with electric starter buttons. If you took your car out for a drive, you would need to be careful not to leave it where someone could steal it or "pinch it." Henry Ford used to chain his to a lamppost and secure it with a padlock. Can you imagine? lol

The Lexington Hotel in Chicago was built in 1892 and offered luxury apartments for permanent residents. One of the most famous of those being gangland leader Al Capone who lived there from 1928 until his arrest in 1932. With everything and everyone "connected" in Chicago, this seemed like the perfect location for Isabella and Felix to stay. Unfortunately, as fortunes dwindled over the years, the hotel became a brothel and fell into ruin. It was demolished despite being declared an official landmark, and a new building, called "The Lex," was built on the site.

More photos for this chapter can be found in the gallery for this story on my website. I'll be updating another chapter from this story next week since Spider's next chapter isn't ready yet. Thanks for reading. xx