June 2011
Twenty-One/Twenty-Four
Dawn had broken demandingly, and Isabella worried. This thing between them felt private and fragile – she worried that, like old photograph film, it would be ruined if exposed to sunlight. Edward kissed her temple when he woke, then headed out of the bedroom. "Sleep, baby," he murmured.
But she could not. Her mind was racing, and she had felt too jittery to achieve deep sleep. Isabella rolled into the kitchen just minutes after Edward. Like a compulsion, her eyes shot to Edward's. Warmly, he smiled at her but couldn't hold her gaze.
Isabella didn't blame him. She felt a hint of awkwardness, too.
Fortunately, to her pleasant surprise, Carlisle was there. In fact, the kitchen was unusually crowded, but by a stout woman chef, wearing a white chef's jacket.
"Oh!" She lit up. "Morning, Unc – uh, Carlisle," she said, feeling a hint of awkwardness there, too. Three days earlier, Victoria had tartly pointed out that there was no longer any familial relationship. Oh? Is the divorce not finalized, dear? I thought there was no familial relationship any longer. Bella had graciously replied that the divorce had not been finalized, but that she would no longer be so presumptuous.
Carlisle's eyes darkened, but his expression was kind. "Uncle Carlisle, please," he corrected gently. "Good morning, sweetheart."
Bella smiled. Then she turned to the chef. Bella had not bumped into this person before and was at a loss for how to act.
"Good morning," Bella called out to the chef, with a hint of shyness. She wheeled forward, to the left of the kitchen counter and into the spacious cooking area. Bella held out her hand. The tremors were particularly bad today. They acted up when she was tired, and she was. She and Edward had only gotten three or so hours of sleep.
Like most people did upon meeting her first, the chef looked a little shocked. Isabella smiled reassuringly. "Nice to meet you," she said. "I'm Isabella."
The chef shook her hand. "Angie. Nice to meet you."
"Angie, we can just eat here in the kitchen," Carlisle said kindly but firmly, interjecting.
"I can serve the food in the breakfast parlor, Dr. Cullen," Angie explained. "It's not a problem."
Carlisle looked at Bella askance, and she shrugged her shoulders. With that, the three of them made their way to the so-called breakfast parlor. It was a brightly lit room that was more elegant than the kitchen but less opulent than the dining room. Edward cleared a space for Bella's wheelchair and she rolled into it with a grateful thank you.
Edward dropped a blundering, stiff kiss on her hair. Usually, he did it so casually and charmingly that it felt entirely natural. He walked around the table and sat.
"Bee, you don't have to introduce yourself to the staff, darling," Edward said, in a voice that was clearly meant to educate and explain.
Bella felt a flash of irritation – the first such exasperation she had felt in years. She wrinkled her nose and eyed Edward peculiarly.
"Oh, dear God," she said flatly, without concealing her disdain. "Don't be such a condescending snob, Edward."
Carlisle barked out a laugh. "She's right, you know," Carlisle said, looking at Bella very fondly. "Whatever my mother told you about elegance is probably wrong."
Edward had the decency to look mildly ashamed. "Whatever," he grunted. "Are we allowed to get our own coffee?"
Despite what she said, being at Wharton Bay had helped her understand Edward – and even Carlisle – with unprecedented clarity. Back in Washington, even despite Victoria's appearances, the Cullens had seemed so normal. "Rich white people," Jake would've probably called them. Comfortable, but normal. The first hint of opulence came with Oyster Bay - Victoria's mansion - and that was a cottage compared to this house.
Wharton Bay was a gilded-age mansion because the Cullens were old money in league with people like the Vanderbilts.
For Bella, it explained a lot. It explained why Edward and Carlisle used the term of endearment "darling" so snobbishly, without dropping the Gs. It explained why Victoria spoke with a Mid-Atlantic accent that reminded Bella of Katherine Hepburn. Most importantly for Bella, it explained why the wealth had gone straight to Edward's head.
Age, experience, and even pain had tempered him. After last night, Bella was finally willing to consciously acknowledge one fact: Bella was important enough to Edward that her disdain – her disgust and pain at how he had transformed into an insufferable prick – had seared him.
Feeling oddly touched, she lifted a hand. She reached out across the table, hands trembling with CP, with her palm upturned. Tenderly, Edward took her hand. He steadied her trembling and stroked her knuckles. Their eyes met, and he smiled apologetically. Bella finally felt able to hold his gaze: to have silent conversations.
Her stomach burst with relief.
Carlisle eyed them curiously.
"My dear mother booked this woman's services three months ago, for two whole months," Carlisle explained to Bella, sounding like a whiny adolescent. "I received a large downpayment bill anyway because of the company's cancellation policy."
"Then I figured we might as well eat good food for vacation," he said cheerfully, patting his stomach, and Bella giggled.
Bella felt another wave of love for the best avuncular figure in her life. Esme's dislike of the character meant that she had not spent very much time with her real uncle – Charlie's brother Gary.
"Have you been on vacation?" she asked concernedly. "We barely see you."
"Oh, I'm fine, sweetheart," Carlisle breezily. "I've been catching up on my CME requirements."
Bella blinked dumbly, but was fortunately interrupted by Angie emerging from the kitchen with fancy platters of Pain Perdu. From the look of the dish, Isabella assumed it was uppity French toast.
"What does CME mean?" she asked shyly.
"Oh. Sorry, sweetheart. It means Continuing Medical Education. You have to earn a certain number of credits every year to keep your license. 50 hours every year." Carlisle looked at Edward pointedly, and Edward nodded studiously.
Bella winced. "That sounds like a lot."
Carlisle shrugged. "I'm taking a nice little course on precision therapy for sarcoma treatment," he said happily.
"What were sarcomas again?" Bella asked peevishly. "I swear I pay attention when you talk, but I forgot."
Edward spoke after a sip of orange juice. "Soft tissue cancers," he said excitedly, as if raising a hand in class, and then looked to his father for approval. "Muscle, fat, nerves, that kind of thing."
Bella tried to smile politely, but had grown rather queasy. Fortunately, Emmett and Rosalie barged in, trailing one after the other. They weren't touching, but both looked disheveled. Cringing, Bella noticed Rosalie's golden hair was tangled with green grass and Emmett's jeans were stained with green.
Edward looked at them peculiarly, his upper lip twitching in an effort not to laugh.
Rosalie gave him a customary greeting glare; she always looked at him with a hint of suspicion. "Happy birthday, Cullen," Rose said flatly.
"Thanks, Hale."
Far more enthusiastic, Emmett bounded up to Edward. "Happy birthday, brother!" Emmett grabbed Edward's head in a headlock and rubbed his fist against his luxurious locks. Edward grunted and elbowed Emmett in the ribs.
"Kids, there's breakfast in the kitchen," Carlisle said warmly.
Bella gasped like she'd made an atrocious mistake. "Oh, oops. I forgot," she said. "Happy birthday, Edward," she said, low and sweet. She blew him a kiss, and he responded with one of the goofiest, most self-satisfied grins she had ever seen on his face.
"I really didn't forget," she said apologetically to Carlisle, as if wanting to protect his good opinion. "I uh – I got him something really silly."
"It wasn't silly," Edward said, looking at her so tenderly that Bella felt like burning. "The mug was perfect."
"And," he added "You gave me the best gift I've ever received."
Bella glowed with love. She pinkened at the compliment. Then she spent the rest of breakfast smiling to herself like a lovesick moron.
Emmett came back with a plate overflowing with brioche French toast, honeycomb cream and caramelized almonds and pear. "The chef's a peach," he told no one in particular. "Rose and I are going hiking today and she offered to make us sandwiches with free-range chicken."
"I have no idea what the hell that is," Emmett continued cheerfully. His mod had improved dramatically since Jane's departure. "But this nonsense is cooked to a turn, so it's gotta be good."
"It means the chicken was happy before it died," Bella supplied helpfully.
Edward grinned and Carlisle laughed.
"Where are you kids going?"
"Bar Harbour, doc," Emmett said cheerily. "Do you two wanna come?"
"We're picking up my Aunt at the aiport," Edward corrected tartly.
"Oh, Christ. That slipped my mind. Is Bruno coming?" Rose asked of Bella irritably.
"Who the hell is Bruno?"
Rose slammed her hand against her forehead. "It's Esme's horrible little foo foo dog. I met him when I went to Seattle last summer to hang out with Bella a bit, you know. Moral support and all that. I took him for his walks in the morning 'cause I was an idiot and wanted to be a good house guest. Christ, it was torture. He has small dick – sorry, I mean dog – energy. Humps everything that moves, barks at bigger dogs, shits all the livelong day."
Carlisle had to bite the inside of his cheek and slam his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing.
The tension had hit her again after breakfast. It was too overwhelming, she thought, to feel like this. She loved him so much andwas so in love. They had been burning slow for so long, dancing on the edge, that it had become a comfortable place. This was entirely new, and Isabella had no idea how to act. The thing with Andrew had not been very serious, and Isabella had never felt as insecure – Andrew was lovely, a far cry from "a fuckboy."
After breakfast, Edward had trailed after her. Perhaps still feeling a little vulnerable. She had looked up. "I'm going to take a shower and a nap," she told Edward blandly, offering a generic smile.
She needed space.
She entered her room and took a deep breath. It was true that she was exhausted. The tremors were acting up, and her joints were aching – her body's way of telling her that she had gone too long without sufficient sleep.
Her room was one of the largest in the house, and she had a huge ensuite bathroom had a clubfoot tub against one wall and a shower facing opposite. Someone – possibly Carlisle – had made sure that it was perfectly accessible to her.
One of Victoria Cullen's last parting shots had been to point out that Isabella had been given a master bedroom that typically went to Carlisle. "But I suppose you must need it in your condition," she had sniped. Bella had been mortified then.
"To hell with the old bat," Rose had said sharply when Bella had shared the incident. "That bathroom is banging. Enjoy it."
Channeling her inner Rosalie, she decided to take a bath. She locked the door to her bedroom and stripped in her wheelchair. She wheeled into the bathroom and turned the taps on in the bathtub, settling for a lukewarm temperature. Strategically, she used each of the chrome grab bars to transfer her body into the bathtub, first by swiveling into the bench, and then by sinking into the water. It wasn't the easiest transfer in the world, and getting out would be challenging.
For what felt like hours, she soaked in the tub. With trembling fingers, she washed her hair with fancy lavender-scented shampoo. She used creamy, lavender-scented conditioning on her tresses. Still under the water, she thought of Edward – his hands, his jaw, his chest. Hesitantly, she moved her hand over nipples that pebbled.
After, she slept a deliciously long nap under the ceiling fan.
Isabella wheeled into the entrance foyer and then into the remodeled TV room, which Bella imagined had once served as a billiards room.
There was an ornate antique billiards table, surrounded by handsome mahogany bookcases. The books were filled with hundreds of tomes, all leatherbound, with gilded embossing. At first, Isabella had marveled at books, hesitant to touch them. Just by looking at the spines, she managed to find a handful of gems. The complete illustrated works of Charles Dickens, a collection of Greek plays, and an illustrated edition of Shakespeare's plays.
In the end, her curiosity had won: she pulled one of the bookshelves. The dust had made her eyes water as she lifted one of the volumes. To her delight and amazement, the book she had lifted had been published in 1864. Isabella had gasped: it had been magical – and so, she had fallen in love with the room.
Wheeling into the billiards room, she glanced at the books as if greeting animate objects wih reverence.
Opposite the billiards occupied by a large, Victoria-tufted leather couch, so wide that she loved to curl up there. There was a bay window that overlooked the in-ground private pool, which had turned into a miniature homegrown swamp. The couch was so large that Bella could fit her legs from heel to ankle by sitting against the backrest. She pulled up Room – which had become more and more harrowing - and curled up to read.
"Bella?"
Bella wasn't startled. She'd heard him walk up to her; had looked up, had smiled.
"Have you been avoiding me?" he sounded irked, even as his entire posture showed his vulnerability. His shoulders were drooped and his eyes were downcast. Like Carlisle, Edward was a very tall man who uncharacteristically walked straight, without slumping, with his head held high. It was one of the mannerisms Carlisle had nurtured in his son.
Wordlessly, Bella shook her head in denial, but Edward knew her too well. The way his expression twisted: his eyes narrowing with anger, and his lips flattened into a straight, twitching line. It was an expression that said plainly: Quit fucking lying. It was the first of many silent conversations to come – the first one of thousands.
"I'm really nervous," she admitted finally, in a whisper, with an exhale that made strands of dark hair fly around her face. "I haven't ever done this before."
Edward's expression gentled. He stomped around the couch, sitting next to her. "Come here. I'm feeling clingy. I need to be close to you."
Edward lifted her onto his lap, claiming her. He held her close, and she curled up, bending her knees. If she lifted her gaze, they would be nose to nose. Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder. She stroked his arm. Bella had sat on his lap before, once or twice, in moments of vulnerability. Edward had always let her lead. This was different.
"I haven't done this either," he said, low and intense. "I'm scared, too." Bella might have once been inclined to scoff, but it would be a hell of a time to inquire or ask about his past relationships. That was a big fish Bella wanted to fry, but not right now. Not when this was so fragile and tender.
"I don't want us to stop being us," she said softly.
"We won't," he murmured. "We won't. And whatever happens, I promise I'll always love you."
He said it with aching, earnest sweetness. Isabella looked up; their eyes met. His were an emerald, blueish green. Hers were a warm, honey-like brown. They were face-to-face: he kissed her again, slow and gentle. The space above her left eyebrow. The bridge of her nose, her cheekbones. Then slow, gentle kisses on her lips.
Isabella reciprocated. She caressed his face reverently with the pads of her fingers. She dropped gentle, lingering kisses on his cheekbones, his jaw, his bottom full lip. Underneath her kisses, he was vulnerable, and he was hers.
She had always loved him. Now she was completely free to show him how much.
Edward shifted his attention. He started to place butterfly kisses on the space where the delicate shell of her ear met her jaw. It was the most intense – the nicest – thing she had ever felt. Something embarrassingly moan-like came out of her throat.
"Edward."
"Sweetheart, it's fine," he whispered. "We're fine. We're going to be fine." As he said it, realization dawned on his face. Like her, he seemed to release whatever trepidation had seized him.
"We are going to be fine," Bella breathed. She was floating again, and under his lips, a silly smile broke on her face.
"You are so lovely," Edward said throatily. Lightly, with the backs of one finger, he stroked the back of her neck. "Your face is just perfect." Tingling all over, Bella made another whimper-like sound.
Her embarrassment peaked past an unbearable like when she felt something against her butt. It could've been his zipper or even his keys, but Bella knew she was being purposefully dense. Grunting, Edward lifted her slightly, shifting her weight on his lap. She had confirmed her suspicion, and that became too much. Too much just yet.
"We shouldn't be doing this here," she managed to say blushingly, squeakily again, eyeing the threshold warily. "What if your Dad walks in?"
He made a noise of dismissal, moving to kiss her mouth. "He'll probably cry happy tears," he deadpanned.
"Edward. I'm being serious." Belying her statement, her lips kept curling into an elated smile under his kiss.
He stopped. Like her, he was breathless.
"What?"
She cupped his cheek, stroking his perfect face with her fingers. Like Isabella, Edward grew elated with every touch, with every kiss. He was bright-eyed and grinning like an idiot, like he was echoing each of her feelings. She felt so incredibly close to him.
"Could we keep it between us?" she proposed softly, with a hint of her trademark bashfulness. "While we get used to it. While you and I figure it out."
Edward looked at her for several long beats, mulling his answer. He sighed slight sigh: a kind of exasperated amusement flitted across his face, before his understanding settled. "I guess that makes sense." To seal their pact, he kissed her nose.
"Thank you."
"You're calling the shots, angel," he said, and Bella felt warm all over. How had she ever lucked out like this? "You're running the plays."
Because they were nose-to-nose, he saw the light blush bloom along her cheeks. She had tanned a little; her cheekbones were dusted with red, which always made her look so lovely to Edward. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"
Almost peevishly, she shook her head. Laughing, he kissed her cheek. "It means," he said, playful and tender, "that we're going to move at your pace and not mine."
This time, she kissed him on the lips, and it was she who blurted it. "I love you," she murmured.
He squeezed her closer. "I love you, too. I love you so fucking much."
"On that note," Edward said, as the heat of the moment dissipated. He lifted his wrist to look at his Rolex. The Rolex also dampened her mood. Victoria was still nurturing Edward's absurd collection of expensive wristwatches. Carlisle wore a digital plastic wristwatch that Isabella was sure could be purchased at Walmart.
"Would you go on a date with me?" he asked, and he was naughty and almost self-deprecating. "Unfortunately, by date, I mean getting something fun for lunch in Boston before picking up Esme at Logan."
She beamed again.
"And could we go to a bookstore?" she asked excitedly, before blushing.
He smirked at her indulgently, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, my love. We can go to a bookstore."
Her blush only heated. "I finished this one." Awkwardly extending her leg, she gestured at her book. The movement she was trying to emulate was an elegant toe point.
"I've seen the fucking stack you brought, but heaven forbid you run out of books."
Using the armrest for leverage, she started to shift off his lap. Intuitively, Edward knew not to help her unless she explicitly asked. "Those are academic," she said tartly. "And I finished this one faster than I thought I would."
Edward stood from the couch and stretched lithely, like a cat. The bulge in his pants, however diminished, made Bella pinken.
"Especially if you want to go a bookstore, love," he said, "we should head out in like 15 minutes."
Bella pouted. "I need to change," she pointed out. "Can you tell your Dad?"
As she spoke, she started shifting her body to transfer to her wheelchair. It was a skill, and she was proficient at it – at the actual maneuver and at using the flat surfaces around her to help her. Reaching out, she angled the wheelchair towards her at an angle. She used the arm of the couch to swing her legs off the couch.
Edward stole another kiss before she headed upstairs to change.
Even though it triggered memories of the last time they had driven somewhere together, Bella valiantly climbed into the front seat of his Audi. The last time they had gotten in a car together to have lunch, they had returned battled, broken, and bruised by the encounter with Jamie Hunter. She wondered where the Audi had come from: when they were kids, Carlisle had bought Edward a Honda Civic for transportation. The Mercedes had come after Edward groveled and remodeled the old Mercedes.
As he always had, out of habit once upon a time, he casually handed her his iPhone. Isabella stared at it a little dumbly.
"The password is 2204," he said breezily as he drove away. It was his mother's birthday. "All the music is on Spotify."
"There's only great music on my downloaded songs," he added teasingly, "but if there's anything sappy in there, you'll probably find it."
"Har har har."
Once Isabella managed to find the little Spotify icon, and then shift through his songs, she picked Long Cool Woman by the Hollies. "Fuck, that song's intro has always been some top-notch bass. The rift is amazing."
"I know what you like," Bella muttered defensively, with very little bit on her voice. She was still glowing, and it would be months before either of them stopped smiling stupidly for no apparent reason at random intervals. "You know, stuff from the seventies."
"That's when music peaked," Edward said seriously. "The eighties and nineties were trash."
"Unless, of course, the singer is a dark grungy rockstar," Bella deadpanned.
Whatever fear and tension she had been feeling ebbed completely on the road trip to Boston. They talked, and talked, and talked – with the same ease and comfort as ever. She was breezily, giggly, and smiling like a lunatic. It had nothing to do with the delights of that stretch of Route 1. It had everything to do with her sweet boy.
"I swim an hour every day," he was explaining, wearing sunglasses, and channeling old Hollywood charm. "I noticed last year that if I don't exercise the depression gets worse. And the stress is insane. Not because med school isn't hard enough, but because it's a very cutthroat environment."
She touched his cheek. "Are you sleeping OK?" she asked gently, concerned. He had a hard time with insomnia when they were kids, after his mother died. Like the depression, it seemed to have become chronic.
"Thanks to the cardio," he muttered.
"You're doing so well," she all but glowed.
They drifted into a comfortable silence, which she broke with a gasp, so intensely that he was alarmed. "Have you ever had Ethiopian?" she asked excitedly.
"No, darling. Why?"
"It's really delicious, and it's interesting," Bella said happily. "I have a friend at college – Mahlet – and her parents own an Ethiopian restaurant. They serve the food in like a huge circle platter - " She widened her arms in illustration "—and you use the bread as like a base and like cutterly."
He beamed at her as if her idea would cool a warming Earth. "That sounds amazing," he said, so earnestly that she didn't feel patronized. "Put the address on Maps."
Once the address had been inputted and Edward iPhone transformed into a GPS, Bella talked and talked. She told him about how she had met Mahlet, and about her job. "It's part-time," she explained at his quizzical look. "I work as an Inter-Library Loan clerk."
"It's kind of fun," she admitted bashfully. He asked curiously, and she explained that she essentially sent out, found and delivered books and articles to other Maine Colleges. Edward cast a look in her direction – so tender It was almost pained. It was a look she had seen hundreds of times. Now she understood. It was the look of love Edward gave her whenever he found her endearing.
"Your father's still paying for the things you need, right?" he asked suspiciously, growing icy. His grip on the steering wheel became white-knuckled.
"I mean, he is. Like the meds I take. There's no way in hell I'd be able to afford that on my own," she explained. "I just didn't want to ask him for anything after the divorce."
He sucked air through his teeth, rubbed his forehead. "Baby, you have the right to ask him for everything that you need," he said gently, albeit pulsating with anger. "I hate that they're doing this to you."
Their conversation shifted, and Bella whined. She whined about the emails she was copied into. She whined about the traded barbs. She whined about the fact that they had turned every single one of her school holidays into trench warfare. "He keeps talking about blood like some kind of hunter butcher," Bella ranted furiously, about her father. "I just like to have my own money so that I don't feel beholden to him or something."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. It's really been a horrible divorce," Edward said consolingly. "I hate that they're doing this to you."
"But I'm also not surprised at all," he admitted gently, even a touch shyly. "They never seemed to have anything in common besides you."
"Really?" she asked, and she couldn't keep her face from falling or keep the pain out of her voice. It hurt to think of her parents' marriage as some kind of sham arrangement to raise her.
Edward looked at her warily. "I mean, I remember my parents together, and… Charlie and Esme didn't even like to talk about the same things. And don't get me wrong – I'm thankful every day – that they got married. We had to get to know each other. And thank God Esme was your Mom. But sometimes it was awkward as fuck just to see them together."
"I'm glad she's my Mom, too," Bella agreed softly.
A beat elapsed. "I wrote, my, eh… the birthmother an email."
"What? When? How?"
Isabella explained her encounter with Phil Dwyer anew. She hadn't had much of a chance to talk about it with him at the time. She explained how she had received a letter – which she still had not read – with her contact information. She explained who her mother was.
"Holy fucking shit." Edward had been so shocked by the news that the car swiveled briefly, leading to an angry honk. "Your mom is Renée Jolie? Renée Jolie?"
"Yes," Bella said tartly.
Edward smirked a cocky, wolfish grin. "I always knew you were really fucking gorgeous. See? I was right. My girlfriend looks like a Playboy cover girl."
Feeling flattered, mortified, and even vaguely disgusted, Bella wrinkled her nose. "Don't do that," she said testily. "It's gross. And she's a horrible woman. I wrote her a very long email."
Edward schooled his features into the utmost seriousness, but there was still the hint of a cocky grin on his face. It would never truly vanish. When he spoke, however, his voice was gentle and aching with concern. "And what did she say?"
"I never read her reply," Bella admitted in a low voice. "I chickened out."
"Oh. That's… I mean, that makes sense. You don't owe her anything, Isabella. You understand?" His voice ended on a harsh note.
"I'd still love to know…" Bella said pensively. Then the idea struck her. If there was one person she could trust with this – her deepest wound – and with her unconditional protection foremost in mind, it was Edward. "Would you read it for me? Just read it. Tell me the main points."
"I'd be – well, not happy. Honored that you trust me to do it. If you're sure, sweetheart."
"I am." She leaned over and smacked her lips to his cheek.