A/N: Thanks so much for all your thoughts!
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 17 – The Ghost of Christmas Present
The small, rustic Forks Café just down the block from Hale Antiques and Restoration was festooned for the season similarly to most of the businesses in Forks' minuscule Main Street, with an abundance of emerald wreaths and crimson garland draped from wall to wall. Off in a corner, a fresh Christmas tree twinkled colorfully and imbued the compact space with its piney scent, while over an unseen speaker, a playlist of Christmas tunes rang out at a strategic volume. The music was loud enough to create a merry atmosphere while allowing for a comfortable level of conversation and laughter.
The snug cafe was packed, but Tony and I lucked out. We were sat right away at a tiny, window-view table for two that had our legs inadvertently touching under the cramped table as we tried to situate ourselves. Service was quick, and the wait staff of two presumably hoped for equally fast table turnover. But we were caught unprepared by the speed of the younger server – in his late teens or early twenties – and had to briskly scan our plastic-coated, one-page menus to place our orders while simultaneously conducting the complicated winter ritual of divesting ourselves of coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. We both picked the first thing that sounded good to us, and the server dashed away to place our orders, leaving us behind flustered and with our snowcapped winter wear piled sky-high atop our laps like the mountains far off in the view. When Tony's and my eyes met over the hilly peaks of downy filling, we choked on laughter.
Tony's lips twitched with mirth. "This sure is an overly-efficient, no-nonsense town."
"It is, isn't it? I thought it was just me who thought so."
"It's not just you," he assured me, "but at least it gives us stories to share."
Our amusement petered down, but when our gazes threatened to hold for a beat longer than necessary, I hastily cut my eyes to the snowy view outside the windows. For a few heartbeats, only the jaunty tune of 'Holiday Road' a la Kesha remake broke the relative silence around our table. Tony cleared his throat, and when I panned back to him, he rose to his feet, cradling his winter gear in an arm. For a split second, I thought he'd noted my strange and growing ambivalence and meant to leave. Instead, he held his other hand out to me, gesturing behind me with his jaw.
"I see a coat rack we weren't told about. Pass me your stuff, and I'll hang it up before we end up with sore neck muscles while simply trying to hold a conversation."
Chuckling, I handed everything over. "Thanks."
"No problem, Bella."
He shot me a wink before walking away, and I watched him go, that peculiar, conflicting mix of emotions – trepidation, anticipation, guilt – warring within me. A few sets of eyes followed Tony's movements, male and female gazes admiring his handsome features, tall, lean frame, confident gait, and well-shaped backside. For the last half of the short walk over here from Rosalie's shop, I'd indeed resorted to holding on to him to prevent a fall, my gloved hands clasped to his arm as he supported my weight and smiled indulgently. Yet, rather than warmed by Tony's growing smiles, grins, and playful winks, a perplexing sensation akin to nausea climbed further up my esophagus. I wasn't sure why.
It wasn't as if I was doing anything wrong. On the contrary, I was attempting to right a past wrong, even in a minimal way, by trying to find out if Tony was somehow a descendant of Edward's. This was just one task I had to perform to attempt to set the sins against Edward right. The other involved finding out how much, if any, of Rosalie's earlier story was true. If certain parts were more than just some fictionalized origin story, as Rosalie seemed to believe, then I had to find out who'd been the first owner of the Victorian after Edward's death. Chances were that this person's identity would lead me to the identity of Edward's betrayer.
Why, when I thought of Edward's betrayers, did I picture my face?
"Stop it, Bella," I hissed under my breath, fisting my hands at my sides and frustrated by my childish fluctuating emotions. I could only imagine how Edward would tease me if he were here, probably making a crack about how typical it was for a female's emotions to be all over the place, for my inability to decide whether I was excited or petrified. A soft smile lifted the corners of my mouth, and I snorted to myself, recalling that he might actually not tease me about any of that, not after he'd performed about a century's worth of online research in one afternoon and was now trying to be an ally to-
With the jarring abruptness of a scratched record, the smile fell from my face. What was I doing now?
Blinking all my unsettling thoughts from the forefront, I watched Tony stride back with empty, muscular arms at his sides. He shot me a broad grin as he approached, and I returned the gesture before pulling my eyes away long enough to catch those admiring sets of eyes again. This time, they followed his trajectory, zeroing in on me and narrowing in envy.
So why didn't I feel like someone to be envied?
Tony sat back across from me, his long legs brushing against mine under the table.
"Sorry. Long legs."
"You're good."
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," I said breezily. "Just thinking about some stuff."
He nodded, steepling his hands over the table and resting them next to the salt and pepper shakers halfway between us. I found myself remembering all the times Edward and I had sat at the kitchen table over the past few weeks, arguing, arguments that turned to banter, then banter that almost turned into…well.
My eyes remained on Tony's hands for a few seconds. Though I couldn't be sure, I thought perhaps Edward had the bigger hands. Thicker knuckles and definitely longer fingers, but the palms looked similarly shaped. Hands are fucking hands, Bella, I thought to myself with no little bit of self-disgust, my nostrils flaring in irritation. When I met Tony's gaze, his brow was furrowed.
"I hope the meeting with Rosalie went well. I couldn't help but note that you looked flustered earlier, too, when you walked out of her office."
"Oh. Well." I reached across the table with no real aim, and for a fraction of a second, I was almost overwhelmed by a wild urge to touch Tony's hands, thread my fingers through his, and reassure myself that they were flesh and blood. At the last moment, my hand deviated to the salt and pepper shakers.
Tony appeared somewhat bewildered as if for the same fraction of a second, he also thought I might grab his hands. I picked up the salt shaker, twisting it around and watching the granules spill over the table like snowflakes.
"A possible snafu did pop up," I hedged, avoiding details – for now – about how he was the possible snafu. That was something I'd have to ease into, and so far, I was not doing a good job of easy conversation.
Tony's furrowed brows now quirked upward. This close, I noted they were much blonder than Edward's dark copper brows. Thinner, too, not as if he groomed them that way, just in their natural growth pattern. His hair, in general, seemed not just shorter but thinner and less voluminous than Edward's. Inwardly, I wondered how the hell a ghost's head of hair could seem thicker and more lustrous than a flesh-and-blood man's.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, then snorted. "I know Rosalie was pretty eager this morning before your arrival to make sure everything went just right. The sidewalk had to be shoveled just so, the coffee brewed just so-"
"The edges of the tea sandwiches cut off just so?"
"Don't tease," he reprimanded with mock gravity. "It's riveting work for an art history major. The angles had to be measured and everything."
Now, I laughed heartily. "Art History major?" I asked once my amusement wore off. "Really? I was an English major myself."
"Ahh, a fellow liberal artist," he nodded, grayish-blue eyes that reminded me of the winter sky standing out against the rustic and red backdrop, his cologne wafting my way. It was…strong and obviously expensive. I'd picked up on it almost instantly, certainly during our proximity while slipping and sliding over here. I was sure most of the world thought it a sublime scent, especially on such a good-looking guy. I couldn't make up my mind about it. I'd never smelled cologne on Edward, but that didn't mean he didn't possess his distinct scent. It wasn't perfumy; instead, whenever he was around, whether corporeally or just…unseen somewhere, Edward gave off a unique, rich scent evocative of an afternoon spent in the field behind the Victorian. Oak and maple, like his favored crafting woods. Airy like a soft breeze. Warm and balmy like the sun.
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked when it became apparent from Tony's expectant expression that he'd just asked me something.
He leaned in closer. "I asked, since you were a fellow artistic major, if your family also gave you a hard time. Did you get the whole 'Why did you pick such a useless major?' speech at every holiday gathering?"
I chuckled. "Only from my Aunt Gigi."
He grinned. "You're fortunate then. My parents used to get so frustrated with me."
"Why?" I asked with a smile.
Half his mouth rose in an all-too-familiar, satiric sort of smile. "Ever since I was a young boy, I've enjoyed building furniture. As a kid, I used to rummage through our attic…" He chuckled sheepishly. "I'd pull out our family heirlooms – just a handful of sturdily-built chairs and attractively crafted side tables from like the nineteen-hundreds that we had stored up there – and I'd ask my parents all these questions about 'em." He sighed, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, they either didn't have or didn't want to provide answers. So I saved up for materials, started sawing and hammering, and tried to recreate the pieces to give them my backstory. My history. Unfortunately, when my passion for these things translated into an art history major in college, my parents refused to pay for what they termed 'a wasted degree' and disowned me."
I swallowed hard through a dry throat. "That's all so…so sad," I said, the words scratching my throat like sandpaper, making them sound pained on their way out. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey, don't be," he said with emphasis. And probably puzzled by what would've appeared like an overreaction, he reached out and lay a hand over mine, squeezing it comfortingly.
My breath hitched. Tony and I had touched each other already during our short handshake at Rosalie's shop and when I held onto him with gloved hands during our walk over here. The former had been a quick handshake and the latter a gloved interaction. Now, Tony's hand remained on mine. It was warm, and he gave me a couple more gentle squeezes. And I readied myself for those strange sparks, for the lightheadedness and otherworldly wildfire that consumed me when Edward came too close and touched me.
"You had nothing to do with it. Besides, paying one's way builds character, doesn't it?" Tony continued, stroking my knuckles while…nothing else happened.
"Yeah, I suppose it does."
Nevertheless, my reply squirmed out amid a piercing stab of guilt. Firstly, my parents had paid for my college education. And though I'd supported myself for a few years afterward, before Aunt Gigi's death and unexpected inheritance, I couldn't honestly say I knew about financial struggle. Secondly, while Tony had spent his formative years exploring the few heirlooms in his attic and wistfully crafting away while yearning for information on how the heirlooms tied him to his past, to his rightful ancestry, I possibly, though more than likely, owned a whole house-worth of his ancestry! And I couldn't even think about his years of struggling to pay for college tuition without feeling my face flame in shame. He'd struggled all while a stash of cash, a hidden nest egg lay buried!
And now what? That nest egg was supposedly mine? For me? In case things ever grew tough for me? Meanwhile, it increasingly sounded like things were already tough for him.
Slowly, Tony pulled back his hand and shot me an amused expression. "So your aunt gave you a hard time about your English degree, huh?"
"Uhm…yes. Yeah, but she's dead now, so." I shrugged distractedly.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
My eyes flashed to his apologetic ones. "If I'm not allowed to be sorry that you were disowned, you're definitely not allowed to feel sorry about my Aunt Gigi's passing. Besides, she was quite a character, and not always in the best ways."
"Mm," he nodded. He picked up the pepper shaker and absently turned it over and over like how I turned the salt shaker, pepper flakes peppering out. "I've heard a few whispers that I've got some of those types of questionable characters hidden deep on my family tree too-"
My heart stuttered and then stopped with a massive thump.
"-though I don't know too much about them," he added, then continued before I could catch my breath. "But yeah, I majored in Art History and minored in antique furniture restoration – all so I can now sweep and shovel for the great Rosalie Hale. Though I guess I can't complain too much, considering she is the great Rosalie Hale," he said with an expression of apparent awe, "and considering today's job market."
Funny, how interests and talents did seem to pass down from generation to generation. Just earlier, Rosalie had made an offhanded comment. In her expert opinion, she'd said, Edward had missed his calling in life. Now, it seemed that this calling, this interest, this talent had been passed down. Tony was doing with his life – or trying to – what his possibly great-great-grandfather should've done.
Amid these swirling, mind-blowing thoughts and revelations, our food arrived. Tony had ordered chicken tenders and fries, and I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. The young server placed the burger before Tony and the tenders before me.
"No, my man," Tony said. With an under-his-breath huff, which I hoped only I heard, he picked up both dishes and switched them. "Burger for the lady, chicken tenders for me."
"Oh. Sorry," the server said.
"It's okay," Tony replied, but an edge in his tone made me meet his eyes.
He shot me a playful eye roll. Nevertheless, I was glad the young server missed it. I answered the server's apology in a much more conciliatory tone, looking up at him with an easy smile.
"No worries."
The kid expelled a breath before returning the smile. "Enjoy your meal, and please let me know if you need anything else."
Tony and I answered simultaneously with "Will do," though Tony's was bare, and I, still trying to make up for his earlier brusqueness with the server, practically sang the two words. As the kid walked away, Tony leaned in,
"Rushing us through the order, then he can't even get it right," he whispered. Chuckling, he shook his head.
"Yeah, but he's a kid," I shrugged, "and it's the holiday rush."
Tony sighed and shot me a rueful smile as he drew back. "He's old enough, but you're right. You're right."
When he checked his watch, I belatedly recalled that he was on his lunch break, and a fresh stab of guilt pierced my chest even deeper. Despite taking our orders quickly, the food took some time. Tony didn't want to be late to work, and really, who could blame his impatience when the job that paid his bills was on the line? Meanwhile, not only did I no longer work a nine-to-five due to an inheritance that left me free to indulge in my writing, I had a stash of cash stashed somewhere!
I picked up a fry and chewed it methodically, unable to taste it. "Uhm, Tony, I didn't realize you were an assistant on the actual business side of Rosalie's business."
"Was it the manual labor that threw you?" He stretched his hands over the table, palms up to show me the results of his hard, physical work. Yet his palms looked as smooth as butter.
When he snickered, I rolled my eyes, biting off another piece of my fry.
"Seriously, I get having to prove oneself and work one's way up," he said, biting off a piece of chicken tender, chewing, and swallowing. "Ooh, these are good. Worth the wait. I'm neither afraid of hard labor nor working under someone more experienced. It's all part of the learning experience, isn't it?"
"It is," I said softly, and if I detected the tiniest speck of resentment cushioned within the soft rant, I couldn't blame him. Who wants to do four years of college in such a specialized field only to come out and shovel snow?
I'd certainly been fortunate in my first job out of college. While it hadn't necessarily been a high-paying position, it had been closely related to my study area. I'd learned a lot, even if I'd simultaneously made the mistake of getting mixed up with Jacob. But I suppose that was part of the lesson, too: Beware of silver-tongued individuals who know what to say and when.
I'd followed up that lesson by breaking up with Jacob and taking a new job that, while better paying, had bored me. And though I'd quit that job too once Aunt Gigi died, the boredom remained until I'd bought and moved into the Victorian.
Until I'd met Edward.
"Tony, you have an admirable, mature, and magnanimous way of looking at things."
"Why, thank you, Bella," he said appreciatively. "You seem very mature to me as well. If you don't mind me saying so, very mature and pretty."
"Thank you. And I agree. If you're an art major who loves antique restoration and has to work your way up, there's probably no one better to learn from than Rosalie Hale. Though she drives me a bit crazy, she is amazing at her art. I'm so glad she gave you a chance. I'm sure you'll do magnificently and soon prove your worth."
"Yeah. Yeah, she is the best. And I remind myself of that every time I sweep up the store, return to my one-room apartment, and send in a huge chunk of my paycheck to cover my school loans."
He chuckled, happily biting into his last chicken tender, but that stab of guilt was beginning to slice me deep. Grimacing, I set down a half-chewed fry. I was done. If I tried to eat any more, I might vomit.
"So, Bella, tell me more about you. How long have you-"
"Tony, do you have any siblings?"
He appeared slightly startled by the hasty interruption but replied with a smile.
"Nope. I'm an only child, and I've always been okay with that. How about you, Bella?"
"No. How much do you know of your ancestors?"
"My ancestors?"
I nodded.
"What, like my parents and grandparents?"
"And great-grandparents, and great…great-grandparents?"
He jerked back, even more disconcerted by the seeming non sequitur. Running a hand through his hair, he frowned but blew air through his lips in a 'What the hell? Let me indulge the weird question' manner. I watched him search his memory, his gaze panning to the windows and the white-capped mountains in the distance.
"Well, my grandparents on my mom's side were Eric and Emily Yorkie, and on my dad's side were Paul and Leah Edwins. My great-grandparents on my mom's side were Rachel and Quil Atterea; on my dad's side were Jared and Rebecca Edwins. But I don't think I ever knew my great-great-grandparents' names. Though, as I mentioned earlier," he chuckled, "I heard some wild whispers growing up – that I had a grandfather involved in shady dealings, bootlegging, or something back during Prohibition. Can you believe that?" He snorted, then stuffed his last few fries into his mouth.
"Tony," I said shakily, "I think I might-"
He suddenly checked his watch, then clucked his tongue, muttering a sharp "Shit" before meeting my gaze apologetically.
"Bella, I lost track of time, and if I'm even a minute late getting back from lunch, Rosalie will have my head – understandably, as it is the holidays," he added. "Do you mind if we grab the check? I'm sorry. I was having a great time getting to know you."
"Oh! No, I get it," I nodded vehemently. "I'll get the check while you grab our coats?" I offered.
"No, no," he protested, half-standing and reaching into his back pocket for what was likely his wallet. "I've got this."
I stopped him by quickly getting to my feet and quirking a brow down at him. "We don't have time to argue. You can get the check next time."
His face broke into a wide grin. "Next time, huh?"
Unable to decipher right then and there whether the way my stomach rolled at the apparent pleasure and eagerness in his grin was due to butterflies or nausea, I offered him a hasty chuckle and sped off to pay the check.
We emerged onto the snow-blanketed street less than two minutes later. Tony chattered his teeth and shivered.
"Cold as an arctic penguin's balls out here, isn't it?"
I frowned up at him with a smile. "Where have I heard that before?"
"In the Arctic?" he grinned.
"Not likely," I chuckled.
"Come on. Grab onto me, and I'll walk you to your truck."
"How'd you know I came in a truck?" I wondered, peering up at him as I wrapped my arm around his muscular forearm, and we carefully made our way to my truck through the fresh snow drifts.
He smirked at me when we stopped in front of the cherry red truck. "Deductive reasoning. You look like someone who needs to drive this through inclement weather."
He pretended to lose his balance when I bumped him with my elbow. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" he exclaimed, slipping and sliding precariously with each 'Oh' – and taking me along with him on each precarious dip and stumble.
"Tony, don't play like that. No! NO!" I yelled with a pounding heart and building panic. As the deceivingly shimmering ground neared, I saw myself splattered across it facedown. He grabbed me firmly before I met black ice. Then he burst into laughter.
"That wasn't funny!"
"You should've seen your face!"
"You're a bit of a clown, aren't you?" I scowled up at him, unsure how I felt about his amusement at the expense of my terror. All the while, he held me balanced though still off-kilter, and he kept right on laughing.
"Bella, I wouldn't have let you fall," he murmured intently, holding my gaze as he straightened and released me. "So…when can I repay you for lunch by taking you to dinner?"
I swallowed hard. "Tony, I…there are things I think…you and I should discuss."
"We can discuss whatever you want, Bella. That's the whole point of dinner."
I searched his eager eyes, a grayish blue that almost matched the cool white snow around us, eyes so different from Edward's that evoked the lush evergreens surrounding our house.
Except…perhaps it wasn't our house, after all.
"I'll reach out to you, okay? In the next few days. I have to figure out some stuff first."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. Whenever you're ready, you know where to find me. And you've got my number."
Nodding in agreement, I opened the driver's side door. "I do."
For a brief moment, he held my gaze. When he leaned in, my eyes bulged, unprepared, ready to back away...
Soft yet cold lips brushed my cheek. I released a long breath, watching it swirl like smoke against his silhouette.
"Take care, Bella," he said, backing away. "Drive safely, okay?"
"I will. Take care, Tony."
OOOOO
Half an hour later, I sat in my truck in the Victorian's pristinely shoveled driveway.
All the way home, I'd debated with myself about how much to tell Edward, assuming he even made an appearance. For me, it had been a busy morning and afternoon, chock full of revelations that still had my head swimming. By this point, I was relatively sure that whoever bought Edward's house after his death had something to do with his murder. Moreover, I was close to positive that Tony was Edward's great-great-grandson.
What I lacked was concrete proof of either assumption. If I brought all this up to Edward without any concrete proof, there was nothing he could do about it beyond perhaps answering why he'd never mentioned the séance with Victoria and employing his newly acquired internet skills to perform some online sleuthing. I was sure I could guess the answer to my question: he didn't think it was my business. As for the sleuthing, I could just as easily online sleuth without building his hopes up too high and perhaps unnecessarily. Conversely, all I'd manage by coming to him with half-assed assumptions and partial information would be to make him anxious – anxious, and with no way to release that tension and anxiety beyond breaking our windows or wandering around the perimeter of our property, unable to wander any further.
Which made up my mind. For now, I'd keep the morning's revelations to myself.
Sighing, my eyes drifted to the Victorian's shiny windows and the house's newly power-washed façade. It was a view so different from the original one I'd had of the house just a few weeks earlier. The first time I'd looked up at this façade, the siding had been beyond filthy, falling apart in places, and the ghost of a Prohibition-era quasi-gangster glowered down at me in warning not to enter. I'd ignored that warning and found axed holes and hammered holes and all types of holes on the inside.
The house was now clean inside and out, and no one stood by the windows, glaring or otherwise. While it wasn't completely repaired and restored on the inside, we were getting there. The Victorian was increasingly becoming more than just an old, haunted house. It was becoming my home— mine and Edward's.
Except, while it would always be Edward's home by rights, it was increasingly becoming obvious how few rights I had to it beyond its purchase price. Another flesh-and-blood person's right probably trumped mine.
After shutting off the truck's engine, I sat and listened for a few moments to the gusting wind beyond the cabin interior. Then, I stepped out and easily walked the well-maintained path to the house. A shaky breath of trepidation for what I might find or not find filled my lungs as I walked through the front door, shutting it behind me against the icy wind.
The Christmas tree in the corner, the one Edward and I cut and decorated together, greeted me with twinkling lights. Even more astounding, soft notes wafted in the air from the next room, the gentle piano tune to White Christmas. They accompanied me as I divested myself of my winter gear with a smile despite the cold that followed me inside. I felt engulfed in warmth, at home in a way I'd never felt, in a way I'd only felt since I first stepped into this house, even when it was a rundown disaster. I sang along as I kicked off my boots.
"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know… So I met with Rosalie, but…" I continued as I padded toward the piano room.
The notes trickled off. When I entered the room, no one sat at the piano. My heart contracted into a knot, but I said nothing. Instead, I made my way into the kitchen. At the threshold, I froze, and my heart stuttered to a similar standstill.
The kitchen table was set with a plate of grilled cheese, the cheese oozing from the sides as if it had just been grilled. Next to the grilled cheese sat a mug of a steaming dark brew. My eyes flashed to the empty stove, then to the sink, where a freshly washed pan lay upside down on a dishcloth, drying alongside the clean coffee pot.
"Edward?" I called as I made my way to the table.
No one answered. I stood before the proffered meal, my heart racing in my chest as I stared at it, then took my seat.
I drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through narrowed lips, then said quietly,
"Thank you, but more than the shoveled driveway and porch and steps…more than the Christmas songs…more than a gooey grilled cheese and hot coffee…"
I trailed off. Waited for a few seconds that felt like minutes. Then, sighing, I took my seat.
The front door opened and shut. Footsteps approached. The warm, rich scent of pine, oak, and fresh air wafted my way.
He rounded the corner, dressed in his three-piece suit, and leaned against the wall. It was such an...everyday sight, yet not. Just a man walking into a room – not floating, not angrily breaking windows or stomping creaking floors. He crossed his arms against his chest, arms that merely hinted at his strength rather than overtly flaunted it. Then…he met my gaze.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw Edward. Yet, in that short time, I'd gotten it so wrong. Yes, Tony greatly resembled Edward, but their physical differences might as well have been the difference between the sun and the moon – two spectacular orbs that could sometimes be described in corresponding terms but were wholly distinct. Even beyond the variances in eye and hair colors and their manner of dressing and addressing.
Edward offered me a lopsided grin, the opposite side of his mouth quirking upward from the one Tony quirked up, yet lighting up his entire face—brighter than the Christmas tree, more incandescent than the sun. His deep voice teased when he spoke, yet the note of relief in his words was unmistakable. They resonated deep within me.
"Miss Swan, you made it home."
A/N: Thoughts?
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