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-

Once she leaves, Mike returns, asking for my help in removing items from a small storage room near his office, which he plans to turn into a dressing room for Miss Swan as part of her growing list of demands. As I help him, he reassures me I will still be needed to play in the evenings at the club, but with her so adamantly against my presence and participation, I won't be accompanying her on Saturday.

For the rest of the morning, I feel the biting sting of Miss Swan's words, as if she's slapped me firmly across my face. I savor a cigarette on the walk back to my apartment, taking a longer route than usual as I consider the truth to her words.

After my arrival, I visit the men's communal bathroom, where only cold water remains for showering at this time of morning. I take extra care with my appearance, carefully shaving away my whiskers, slicking back my wavy hair with a touch of pomade, and returning to my apartment to dress in a freshly pressed suit. Grabbing my hat, I walk out the door and up the block with plenty of time for breakfast before work due to Miss Swan's early dismissal of my services.

My newspaper goes untouched as I sit at a corner table of the restaurant at the Lexington Hotel. I must take my place at the piano in the lobby soon, but can't shake this unsettled feeling Miss Swan unearthed, pushing around the eggs on my plate as the waitress refills my coffee cup for a third time. I light up another smoke, having lost my appetite.

It's as if she knew exactly what to say to get under my skin, but I know her words hold a certain amount of truth. I was surprised at her knowledge of my past, but more than a little disappointed that when she looked closer, she was unimpressed by the man who stood before her. While Miss Swan pointed out my unkempt appearance, she also went deeper, revealing my insecurities and refusing to let me explain my reasons for being late.

Yesterday, I looked through her portfolio of sheet music, and I knew I would have no trouble accompanying her today. Her music differs from what I've played in the past, and I was excited for the challenge, but it was more than that. Her music sparked something inside of me that had grown dormant over the years.

After playing at The Twilight Club last night, I walked to a club nearby, sipping on a whiskey cocktail and splurging on a cigar while listening to the band that jammed into the wee morning hours. I was fascinated as the musicians created new music on the spot, and for the first time in years, I itched to get back to composing my own music—something I let dwindle with time. My night out was exhausting and invigorating, but when I did not wake up this morning for our rehearsal, I paid the price.

Miss Swan, though . . . Miss Swan is an entirely different type of woman from what I am used to experiencing. There's no doubt she has great style, but under those perfectly tailored soft edges beats the heart of a lioness who doesn't think twice about tearing anyone to shreds limb by limb. She's tough and determined, not willing to let anyone get in her way as she keeps time like a train conductor. Her confident, no-nonsense personality and lack of tolerance for incompetence reminds me of . . . Father.

A grin spreads across my face at the thought of the two of them meeting. He would have loved her, like the daughter he never had. While I have yet to hear Miss Swan sing, I can only imagine Mother would have been quite taken with her too. My smile fades slowly as I accept the sad reality knowing their meeting will never happen.

Once my thoughts drift away from my parents, I'm reminded of Mrs. Cullen's invitation I need to extend to Miss Swan for Sunday dinner. I realize there's no way she will accept after this morning's experience, but I need to do my part, regardless of how she may feel about me.

With a glance at the clock, I shake off the melancholic feelings that always threaten to haunt me any time I think of Mother and Father. Even though my meals are covered by the hotel as part of my job, I leave enough money to cover my meal as a gratuity for my waitress and grab my hat, walking toward the lobby, ready to lose myself in the music of my youth.

I wave at Mr. King, the owner of the Lexington Hotel as he walks across the lobby, and begin with Chopin's Nocturnes, which I know are a favorite of his. My fingers glide effortlessly over the keys as the freely flowing rhythm soothes my tattered heart. It distracts me from true reality, as I'm instantly enchanted by the music. I have no idea how long I've been playing when movement off to the side gets my attention. I notice two familiar figures as they enter the restaurant, arriving for an early lunch.

I don't know if she saw me as the one playing when they walked through the lobby, but I know she will definitely be able to hear the music from inside the restaurant. Maybe it will be enough to spark her interest unknowingly, and with this impromptu audition, she'll give me a second chance.

I try not to lose myself to the music as I play, hoping to stay more aware of my surroundings. There's a beautiful, romantic magic to the Nocturnes—a longing for the unattainable, but at the same time something soft and powerful, while comforting the soul. As I move from one composition to the next, I keep an eye on the doorway to the restaurant, not wanting to miss her departure.

When she does finally appear, my hands don't falter, but our eyes meet as recognition flashes across hers. The only acknowledgement is a slight nod of her head before she turns away, departing through the front door of the hotel on the arm of her bodyguard.

A/N: Frédéric Chopin wrote twenty-one nocturnes from 1827 to 1846. A compilation of those can be found in a post on my website, kayrichard dot com, if you're interested in listening to what Edward will be playing at the Lexington Hotel. Thank you for reading. xx