A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts!

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 2 – Meet me in (St.) Forks

Early December, Present Day:

Someone was standing in front of the broken window.

Beside me, my realtor recounted the latest home's finer points. Meanwhile, I vaguely managed to make out a tall frame, his dark clothing contrasting starkly with a pair of green eyes. The sun's glare blinded me before I could decide whether they were narrowed in curiosity or consternation. Sucking my teeth, I cupped a hand around my brows and created a makeshift visor.

It was a bright morning up in the foothills of the Olympic Mountain Range. Snow cascaded like shimmering gossamer against a gleaming, silvery mountainous backdrop. In the foreground, a lineup of evergreens dappled like dominos lay camouflaged, each tree branch reaching out in an intricate pattern blanketed by a thick cover of icy crystals. The vast landscape resembled a collection of giant snowflakes.

We were just a few short hours from Seattle, but we might as well have been in a different world, in a magical place where I could once again believe in Santa Claus and in that wondrous North Pole realm where childhood dreams come true.

Maybe not-so-childlike dreams came true around these parts as well, because I'd been seeing those same green eyes in my dreams since Thanksgiving night, right before Aunt Gigi took a nosedive into the delicate China.

A gauzy cloud abruptly shielded the sun, and I snorted under my breath. The cleared view revealed nothing at the window but billowing, ivory curtains.

"So much for Christmas magic," I muttered. "Must've been the glare."

In my mind's eye, that imagined green gaze dispelled like a fine-spun mist. But then my covered brow furrowed at the sight before me. Beautiful and festively appropriate landscape notwithstanding, my realtor's latest offering was an ancient ruin of a turn-of-the-previous-century Victorian. The house was huge, yes – three stories tall with an equally generous circumference – but it was also falling apart, though the layer of snow swathing it like a fresh coat of paint attempted to disguise its dereliction.

As did my realtor.

"It's a Queen Anne Victorian." Miss Brandon classified the building as if I were a subscriber to some architecture digest. Her tone, however, was somewhat defensive, and I deduced she'd read my dissatisfied expression.

"Mm," I grunted.

She took this encouragement and upped her enticements.

"The most magnificent one in the area! Just look at the overhanging eaves, the massive, wrap-around porch - you don't find porches like that anymore."

"Mm."

"And all those bay windows! Can you imagine the light that streams in through that many windows, regardless of Washington's knack for rainy days?"

"There are a lot of windows, yes, I'll give you that. However, they'd be more impressive if they weren't all boarded up – well, all of them except for that huge one. "

"Oh…uh, ahem, yes, that window." She cleared her throat. "That particular window is one of the finest examples of craftsmanship in the Forks area! Why, back in its day, this entire house was-"

"Amazing. Yeah, I can imagine." I dropped my makeshift visor and turned back to the realtor with a sigh. "What's next?"

Miss Brandon growled and threw up her hands. "Oh, come on, Miss Swan!"

"What?" I asked, startled by her outburst.

"Miss Swan," she hissed, then snapped, "Bella. May I call you Bella? Bella, we've been at this shit for almost two weeks now, and believe me, I want that commission. I mean, it's the holidays! Who can't use a nice commission around the holidays?"

"But?" I grinned, smartly deducing the 'but' in there.

"But you're being a pain in the ass and wasting my time here, man!"

Alice Brandon was a miniature woman who hadn't impressed me much upon our initial – and every subsequent – meeting. A fast talker whose mouth was more prominent than her body and whose voice was way-too-saccharine, she was a salesperson through and through, putting on an act to earn my business. Today, she looked like a North-Pole-Assembly-Line Reject in her red wool pants and green turtleneck worn under a striped red and green coat and matching hat. Her red Red-bottoms were great, though; I'll give her that, even if highly inappropriate for the weather.

Whatever. I just needed a realtor to show me homes in the Olympic Mountain region. One was as good as the other.

So, despite the insult, I chuckled upon hearing her real feelings erupt in her authentic voice. It was a breath of fresh air amid this mountainous air – even if her speech was kinda rude.

She stomped a well-heeled shoe against the snowy driveway. "Now, I realize you've recently come into money, but I've got things to do, Bella. I've got presents to buy, holiday cocktails to make, and Christmas is just a few weeks away. So if you have no real intention of becoming a homeowner-"

I made the time-out sign. "Slow your roll there, realtor lady. Alice," I smirked, "I have every intention of becoming a homeowner."

"You've turned down some of the best houses we have on the market around here!"

"That's because you're showing me assembly-line garbage. I know I wanted something big and comfortable, with great mountain views, but I also want it to be…different. Special."

Alice snickered. "Oh, trust me. This house is special and different."

"It's also falling apart."

Throwing her head back, she growled at the snowy sky, muttering something unintelligible before scowling at me. "Well, we're here, so we might as well take a look. Who knows? You might find your fate in there."

I scoffed. "Oh, yeah, sure. Fate."

Drawing in a deep breath, I peered up again, blinking away wet snowflakes from my eyes. Behind the non-boarded-up, broken window, a set of ivory curtains undulated in the breeze. For a moment, I had the strangest sensation that someone behind those curtains was studying me.

Then I laughed at myself. "Fine, fine. We're here. Might as well."

With that, Alice teeter-tottered quickly back to her car and pulled out a set of flashlights, handing me one.

"This seems promising already."

OOOOO

The door screeched loudly as I pushed it open into darkness. Cobwebs spread out like garland from corner to corner, while the flashlights made shadows dance merrily on the walls, dust clouds hovering midair, glittering like tinsel. If I'd harbored any hope that the inside looked any better than the outside, that hope was quickly extinguished. Paint peeled off surfaces, ceiling beams laid in decay and rot. Shards of broken glass made light prisms across the grimy floor.

"What a piece of crap!" I chuckled as I walked further in.

"The bones are good, Bella," Alice assured me.

"There are bones too? Whose bones?"

"The home's bones! The structure!" she shrieked.

I was having a ball riling her up. She looked like an angry Christmas elf.

"The bones might be good, but the intestines look about ready to swallow me up."

"It's an investment."

"You mean a money pit."

"I mean, it just needs some TLC."

"Total leveling and compressing?"

When another window broke somewhere above us, my gaze panned upward.

"The wind," Alice explained.

I grunted.

Further inspection yielded furnishings that, to my untrained eye, appeared straight out of a Gatsby-era novel, some coated by a thick layer of dust, some covered by white sheets. While I looked around, Alice gave me some background.

"The house was built in 1920 by a gentleman who, according to rumors, earned his living by bootlegging during Prohibition."

"A gangster, you mean?"

Somewhere above us, another window crashed.

"How long has it been abandoned?"

"I believe the last owner occupied it in the mid-80s."

"1980s?" I frowned, stopping in my tracks. "It looks like it's been abandoned longer than that."

"Yes, well…" Alice shuffled her foot from side to side, "No one has ever lived here very long."

"Why?"

"Take a look at this banister! It was handcrafted from the best wood!"

"And what's with all these holes in the walls?" I wondered, kneeling in front of one particular specimen of said holes. This one was at the bottom of a wall, kind of resembling those small, arched entryways created by that little asshole mouse in those cartoons Dad used to laugh at when I was a kid, but not as neat. There were a few of them all over the place. "Alice?"

"Observe the elegant curve of the staircase!"

"Alice."

"Each spindle is engraved with a whimsical floral design-"

"Alice!"

"Bella! This house is a one-hundred-year-old, three-story magnificence whose builder spared no expense! It's got all your Victorian characteristics: high-pitched roofs, ornate gable trims, bay windows, an octagonal tower, and a wrap-around porch. Indoors, the builder utilized the best wood, as I said, and despite some cosmetic deterioration, it's withstood the test of time! The hardware is all brass and copper! The crown molding and the staircase are handcrafted walnut, as is much of the furniture stored in the attic. Curved archways lead you from room to room." Her sharp, pointy, red heels click-clacked noisily as she sprinted around and took me on a marathon tour of the first floor. "There are mantled fireplaces in the parlor, dining room, and all six bedrooms. That's right! I said six bedrooms! Take a look at the built-in hutches everywhere! Take a look at those darn windows!"

I rolled my eyes. "You've mentioned the windows about twenty times."

"Their beauty and plentitude bear repeating!"

I crossed my arms against my chest. "As does the fact that they're almost all boarded up."

"Hardwood floors throughout!"

"They creak with every step."

"Imagine how gorgeous they'd be restored?"

"You know what, Alice? You're right!"

"I am?" Her eyes sparkled in excitement.

"Yes! With some investment money, this house has potential. I just have one question."

She cocked her red-and-green hooded head. "What?"

"If it's such a great damn house, how is it still on the market?"

"How?" she repeated, that avaricious sparkle in her eyes diminishing.

"I mean, if everything you're saying is true, if the home's bones are so wonderful, and if the restoration will yield me a tiny mansion," I hedged, "why is it so cheap?"

"Why?" She shifted her Louboutin-wearing feet uneasily, her heels adding long scratch marks to what was potentially my future wooden floors.

"Do we have to go through 'When' and 'Where' as well before you give me the story?"

She chuckled nervously. "Heh, heh, that's funny."

I raised both brows.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, fine. You see, there are these…silly rumors.

"What silly rumors?"

She sighed. "Well, it's a little-known tale, sort of a Dickensian-style Christmas carol by this point. It's retold every holiday by the townsfolk of Forks."

"So, what is it?" I asked, waving my hand and speeding her along.

"It's one of those scary ghost stories," she chuckled, "except instead of three spirits, this story involves only one spirit and a stash of cash that the builder of this house, a man by the name of Ed Masen, buried somewhere in this house right before he died."

"Whoa."

"M-hm," Alice nodded. "As I said, the house was built in 1920. Now, in case you're unaware, 1920 was right at the heart of the prohibition era, and Mr. Masen was a carpenter by trade, and though it's never been proven, it's suspected he was a bootlegger who, along with a cousin, ran a small gang of bootleggers of the time."

"So he was a gangster?" I smirked.

Yet another window shard crashed to the floor somewhere in one of the upper floors.

"Uhm, I don't know about that. During Prohibition, the black market for illegal alcohol here in these parts was run by rumrunners through the Puget, who smuggled liquor in from Canada and distributed it to ports throughout Western Washington. Now, while our Puget rumrunners and bootleggers were technically criminals, unlike Capone and his gang in Chicago, these men had a reputation for their integrity as well as for their disdain for violence."

"Aww," I cooed sarcastically, "honest criminals. How cute."

A door slammed hard in one of the upper levels.

I shook my head. "Whoever buys this house needs to install new windows to stop that draft."

"Heh-heh," Alice chuckled somewhat shakily. "Anyway, as I was saying, these bootleggers didn't deal in any other sort of crime beyond distributing liquor, and they…generally didn't carry guns."

"So then what happened to Mr. Masen?"

"Now, I don't know the entire story, but according to police records, on Christmas Eve night, 1921, Mr. Masen and a few of his men were spotted boarding a boat on the Puget. Assuming they were headed for a cargo pick-up, the Coast Guard was called in to search for them. Unfortunately, when they caught up to Mr. Masen's boat, Masen refused to give up his cargo, pulled out a gun, and-"

"Wait, I said with a frown. "I thought you said Seattle bootleggers generally didn't carry guns."

"Generally isn't always."

"True. Continue," I said, more intrigued by this tale than I cared to admit.

"Well, a shoot-out occurred, and Masen was killed."

"Holy crap," I breathed. "And the rest of his gang?"

"They were arrested but soon released. You see, Prohibition wasn't very popular back in those days, and most bootleg infringements went largely ignored or lightly punished. That armed Coast Guard boat opening fire on Masen and his men was extremely irregular for the times, which is why it became Seattle Prohibition era folklore. A lot of people of the time suspected foul play."

"Foul play?"

"As in, someone was purposely trying to take Masen out. See, there were rumors that he'd squirreled away a nice nest egg right here in this house," she whispered dramatically. "After he died, the house was broken into a couple of times, people made holes in the walls, searching for the stash. But no one ever found it. According to the tales, Ed made sure no one ever found his loot; scared 'em all away before they could find it."

"Wow," I exhaled, more fascinated by the second. "Any ideas on who could've betrayed him?"

"No clue. That's as much as I know." Alice shrugged, studying her long, red nails now, her ensuing sigh a hint that to her, the conversation was losing its luster without the promise of a sale at its conclusion. However, for me, on the hunt for inspiration, it was as if I'd hit the tip of a goldmine.

"That's…that's some tale," I murmured, my mind working around the feasibility of researching a man who'd been dead for a hundred years. And if I played my cards right, I could do so while living under the roof of the story's protagonist…in a house that was currently a pile of crap…but that admittedly had terrific bones.

The entire thing had the markings of a hell of a great American novel – or a New York Times Bestseller, at the very least.

"Ed Masen…" I whispered more to myself than to anyone, "what was your real deal?"

"Who knows? So, are you gonna buy the damn house, or what?" Alice asked, loudly and rudely disturbing my musings.

I blinked a few times then refocused. "Alice Brandon, you're a shark of the worst kind."

"What?" she shrieked.

"You're seriously trying to sell me a haunted house during the holidays, no less, so that you can buy yourself a new pair of Louboutins."

"I mean, look at these legs!" She pointed at her legs. "Tell me these beauties weren't made to sport Louboutins. Besides, the house isn't really haunted," she added, waving a hand and snickering. "It's just a stupid tale they tell back in town, something to give our little town a little notoriety – like that small town in Upstate New York where that guy supposedly learned he had a wonderful life after all, and that town right next door to here, where that girl supposedly met a vamp."

"What?"

"The point is, Bella, you're not going to find a better house suited to your needs, and at such a bargain price! What do you say?"

A/N: Thoughts?