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 9 – Deck the Halls
Miss Rosalie Hale arrived on my electrician, Emmett McCartney's recommendation. She was a professional furniture restorer I'd hired to walk through the Victorian, then provide me her professional opinion on what could be restored to a condition that approximated its original. We would then set a plan and a schedule for her to perform her magic. I'd also need her to tell me what should simply be left alone or even disposed of.
It sounded straightforward. But when I'd booked her services, I'd been unaware that the home and furnishing's craftsman still hung around the house – although unseen by anyone but me. As a result, a simple, cut-and-dry process became anything but.
Once I managed to wrap my hand around the doorknob and pull, Miss Hale strode through the front door like a fierce blizzard, with icicles shooting from piercing blue eyes, forehead furrowed like a deep snow drift, and pursed lips…well, her pursed lips were admittedly turning blue. At the sight of her icy fury, any other concerns I may have had – like the momentary fright of believing myself a ghost, evaporated. I greeted her with haste and shut the front door.
"Miss Hale, I'm so sorry. I overslept. Please, come in, come in."
She rushed in, radiating indignation that did nothing to melt those icy stalactites she had for eyes.
"Miss Swan, I don't appreciate being made to wait out on a cold, snowy porch for an entire quarter of an hour," she snapped like a whip in case her irritation wasn't apparent.
From behind me, a question erupted from a person only I heard.
"Bella, who is this woman?"
Obviously, I ignored him.
"My time is precious," Miss Hale continued in that same irritated tone, "especially at this time of year. Why, if it wasn't for Emmett's…insistence that…that…"
She glanced away from me for a second, her glacial gaze panning across the foyer. Her words slowed. They then sputtered. When her eyes alit on the staircase, her power of speech went from bad to worse. She gasped and stopped talking altogether because you can't speak while your mouth hangs open. Her previously narrowed gaze widened, appearing as if it wanted to take in everything before it all at once, from the walls to the ceiling to the staircase.
"Oh, Dear Lord, I've hit the jackpot."
At the same time that she bypassed me to move in closer, the person behind me installed himself in my periphery, still maintaining a safe distance. He repeated his question.
"Bella, who is she, what's she doing here, and what does she mean by 'I've hit the jackpot?' No, don't wave your little hand at me in dismissal. You know I don't like people in my house."
With Miss Hale's back to me, I turned my attention to Edward. Then I hissed barely audible words through clenched teeth, using hand gestures to illustrate and ensure he understood.
"One," – I held up my thumb between us – "it's my house," – I jabbed that thumb into my chest. "Two," – I held up my forefinger – "Shush!"
He quirked a brow at me.
"All my life," Miss Hale interrupted, unaware of the hissed conversation with a ghost occurring behind her, "all my life I've waited for a house like this. Take a look at the wooden wainscoting." She flourished an arm toward the wainscoting. "Look at the enriched molding, at the crown molding! Observe the detailed craftsmanship on the paneling…the carving on the banisters! Amazing!"
"Well, at least she knows quality when she sees it," Edward said, bouncing on his toes rather smugly now, his hands in his pockets, "though I still have no clue what she's doing in my house."
With my eyes on the back of Miss Hale's head, I flipped Edward the bird. Meanwhile, Miss Hale gazed at the walls and expelled a little giggle, clamping a hand over her mouth like someone who'd just struck gold and had no idea what to do with themselves.
"Interesting gesture, Isabella," Edward said dryly. "Tell me, were your parents sailors, by chance?"
Now I flipped him off with both hands. Of course, Miss Hale picked that moment to turn around. She frowned at the confusing sight of me double-flicking the air. Dropping my hands, I expelled a nervous laugh, while a couple of feet from my side, Edward enjoyed a hearty chuckle.
"Pardon me, Miss Swan?" Miss Hale questioned.
"Go ahead, sailor girl. Talk yourself out of this one."
"Oh. Uhm…I…I…" I hummed and hawed.
To my relief, Miss Hale seemed to have more important things on her mind than my sanity. Her frown evaporated. And with a shake of her head and a dismissive wave of her own, she grinned joyfully instead.
"Never mind. Miss Swan, I have to be honest-" she began.
"Please, call me Bella," I offered.
"Bella, then." She was dressed all in white, from her pristine knee-high boots to the ivory beret on her head. With long blond hair and glittering gloss on her smiling lips, she was transformed from the ice queen that walked in minutes earlier to a winter angel. "Bella, please call me Rosalie. Bella, I have to be honest; I wasn't expecting much. I mean, yes, all my life, I'd heard the rumors about the Masen Victorian and its hidden stash of cash."
Beside me, I could almost feel Edward's presence stiffen. "What did she say?"
I rolled my eyes. "Dude, it's no secret." The words were meant for Edward, but Rosalie chuckled, believing them part of our conversation.
"Right?" she chuckled. "Though it'd be great if we knew where precisely that stash was stashed."
A low rumble now erupted from Edward's chest.
"Hey, have you found it?" Rosalie continued, unaware she was about two seconds from being chased out of the Victorian by an angry ghost.
"Well…" I leaned in closer to her, stifling laughter when Edward leaned in with us – or, as far as he could lean in without affecting me – "I haven't searched for it, but between you and me…"
"Bella…" he warned in a growl.
"I'm pretty sure it's just a story," I finished, backing up with an impish smile and yet another dismissive wave.
"Really?" Rosalie said, nodding slowly before returning my smile. "How 'bout the ghost? Any truth to the stories about the ghost?"
I raised both brows.
"Don't," Edward grumbled, "You. Dare."
"Nah! They're all just silly rumors! Now, Rosalie," I said, clapping my hands together, "why don't you start looking around down here while I run upstairs and quickly throw on some clothes? I'll meet up with you in a few minutes."
She was already walking away, ready to explore the next room.
"Take your time," she threw over her shoulder.
Edward followed me up the stairs. "First, who is that woman, and why is she in my- in our house?"
I shot him a glare over my shoulder as I sprinted toward my bedroom.
"Second," he continued, trailing behind me, "I can't believe you were going to tell her about me and about my-"
Reaching my door, I rounded on him.
"Oh, relax!" I hissed. "I was just playing around! Of course, I wasn't going to tell her about you! Do I look like I want to be fitted for a straight jacket right before Christmas? And what would I tell her regarding your stash of cash when I have no clue where it is?"
Here, his eyes rounded, and he took a step back, raking a hand through his hair. "Well, uh…"
I rolled my eyes. "That's not me indirectly asking. When I say I couldn't care less about your stash of cash, I mean it."
"It's not that I don't trust-"
"She's a professional furniture restorer," I said, answering his first question to spare us the rest.
"A professional furniture restorer?"
I huffed. "I told you about her, remember? When I accidentally scuffed this door?" I pointed behind me at the bedroom door.
"Oh." He nodded, remembering now. Then he pursed his lips and crossed his arms against his chest. "Yeah. When you flung those strange men's boots at my head."
"They're not men's boots, you sexist pig," I replied flatly.
"They're not?" He looked genuinely surprised. And somewhat…relieved? "I thought they were some sort of…never mind."
"Either way, they went right through you. And I wasn't aiming for your head. I was just trying to- look, never mind all that. She's here to look at this door and a bunch of other stuff in the house."
"Okay." He nodded at the clarification, raking a hand through his hair. "All right. That sounds innocuous enough, I suppose."
"I'm glad you agree," I said with an admitted touch of sarcasm. "She'll then let me know what's salvageable, what she can restore, and what I should just leave alone or get rid of. Now let me go get dressed so that I can-"
Here, he reclaimed the step he'd just taken backward – still maintaining a safe distance. His expression, however, was abruptly anything but innocuous.
"Come again?" He tilted his head. "She'll let you know what you should get rid of?"
"Yeah," I said.
"What of my work you should get rid of," he reworded.
"Uh, yeah."
"Uh, no," he said. "No one's getting rid of anything in this house."
I squeezed my eyes shut and expelled a heavy breath before reopening them. "We don't have time for this argument right now. I have to go get dressed."
"That's fine, as long as we're clear that no one is getting rid of anything in this house."
I was momentarily too fascinated by the fire burning in his gaze, by the way his mouth moved firmly around each syllable, to reply. Then I blinked myself out of it.
"Edward-"
"Bella-" he cut me off curtly, pinching the bridge of his nose. However, with a long breath of his own, his eyes once more met mine. And when he swallowed and spoke again, he at least sounded more in control, even if I could sense the anxiety rolling within him. It was almost as if…as if I felt it rolling within me. For a second, I recalled the strange incident by the front door when I'd tried to wrap my hand around the doorknob and thought I'd seen it go through the doorknob.
"Bella, you're a writer," Edward said, breaking me out of my musings.
I offered him a smile. "I try to be."
"You are," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, but also made it clear that wasn't precisely his point before he briskly moved on. "But imagine that a hundred years from now, the words you'd written and poured your heart and soul into were being judged by someone you neither knew nor trusted. Then, based on her own criteria, this person would determine which ones of your words would be framed, which ones would be left alone…and which ones would be discarded – regardless of how you felt about that."
"Edward…" I breathed.
"Now imagine," he murmured quietly, even though no one could hear him but me, "that the one person in the world who you did trust…was going to let that happen."
At that moment, I wanted to reach out and touch him more than I'd ever wanted to reach out and touch him. More than I'd ever wanted to reach out and touch anyone. I wanted to tell him that he could trust me. The urge to comfort him, to cradle his cheek, to gently grip the hair at his nape…to take his hand was so overpowering that while all these thoughts raced through my mind, I found my hand in midair. It seemed almost an instinctive action when Edward lifted his hand too. For a few seconds, both hands hovered in the space between us while Edward and I stared at them. Slowly, he dropped his hand and took another step back. I let my hand fall to my side.
When our eyes met, we offered one another mutual, bashful smiles, our typical bluster and banter suddenly abandoning us. I swallowed, breaking the odd silence between us.
"Your heart and soul are in those pieces, aren't they?"
He nodded wordlessly.
"Strange," I mused. "You're a gangster who should've been an artist."
He snorted. "I'd take that as a compliment if you hadn't once again termed me, incorrectly, I'll stress, a gangster."
"Let's agree to disagree on that one – for now," I smiled. "And how about we do this? Why don't you take the walk-through with me, and then you can let me know your thoughts on everything, and we can decide together how to handle each piece?"
He held my gaze. "Together?"
I nodded. "After all, it all belong to…both of us."
He nodded with a sharp breath, "Bella, the stash of cash. I want to tell you-"
I shook my head vigorously. "We don't have time for that. Rosalie is wandering the halls by herself and probably drooling over everything."
He chuckled. "Okay."
"Let me go get dressed quickly."
He swallowed. "I'll…I'll go see what Miss Hale is up to."
Reaching behind me, I panicked when I reached where the doorknob should be, yet I missed it, and it almost felt as if my hand just kept…going. With a hitch of breath, I pulled my hand back-
"What's wrong, Bella?"
-and tried again. The knob turned easily.
"Nothing," I smiled, pushing the door open a couple of inches. "Nothing," I repeated, chuckling mirthfully yet quietly. "Just my writer's imagination at work." I shot Edward a much more mischievous smile. "Don't go scaring her, Edward. You heard for yourself she doesn't want your money, and I've convinced her you don't exist. Don't go turning me into a liar by making yourself seen or heard."
"I won't," he said, walking backward. "Nowadays, I only show myself to aspiring writers who've offed their great-aunts via a bowl of mashed sweet potatoes, then move into my house and still somehow convince me to tell them my story."
"Good. And, nowadays, I'm only telling the story of the Prohibition-era, bootlegging gangster who I'm allowing to live in my house."
He smirked, and we shared another laugh. And with my heart racing, I turned around and walked into my bedroom, feeling Edward's gaze on me until I shut the door.
Holy crap. Ho-lee crap.
Had Edward and I – the ghost of a 1920s gentlemanly bootlegger and a 2020s feminist writer, respectively – left the banter momentarily behind…to flirt?
A/N: Thoughts?
Facebook: Stories by PattyRose
Twitter: PattyRosa817
"See" you soon!