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needahugfromesme · 3 days

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cottage

An excerpt from this chapter of 2003. The Cullens have just moved to Forks and Edward is exploring the woods behind the house.

I was surprised to find the remnants of an old trail not far from the river. It hadn't been used in a long time; for most of its length, the only sign was a winding track of evergreens that were significantly shorter than their neighbors. A rusted tin can was the only other evidence that a human had ever passed this way. Maybe this path led to an old deer stand or something like that.

I explored here and there, finally taking to the treetops so I could follow the "path" more easily. I was finally rewarded with the sight of a big rectangle so regular that it had to be manmade. It was partially obscured by the overgrowth and the rotted branches that had fallen on it in recent years, but it was definitely a building. I swung back down to the forest floor, surprised to see not a deer stand or a spartan hunting shack, but an adorable little stone cottage.

It was like stepping into a fairy tale. I had landed just far enough away to use the little path of flat stones that led the way home to the front door. The decaying, broken roof was an eyesore, but everything else was perfect... in a crumbling, half-reclaimed-by-nature sort of way. Wild, meandering honeysuckle had completely taken over one wall. Nearly every stone was outlined and softened with moss. The arched door wasn't in the best shape, but it was made of sturdy oak that had easily outlived the roof.

I walked a wide circle around the whole thing. A stone chimney crowned the southern corner, and there was a little door in the back that opened directly into what probably used to be a garden. Now, it was just a little outline of rotted miniature fencing, completely overrun by natural growth. Only a single climbing rose plant had survived to tell the story of the former inhabitants, clinging to the mossy stones as if to escape the encroaching wilderness.

I reached out and gently touched its petals. Stubborn rose, I thought with a smile. It was a good omen; Rosalie and Emmett were going to love it out here. It'd been a while since they'd really needed four walls of their own to knock down as they pleased, but it wasn't every day we found a house that came complete with a fairy tale cottage, either. I was almost jealous.

I carefully inspected the rest of the exterior before easing the door open. Esme would want to know every detail, though of course she would soon be out here to see it for herself. I stretched my gift back toward the main house to her mind abuzz with renovation plans. She might not be able to get to the cottage right away. I grimaced around the tiny living room. The beehive fireplace was in good enough condition, but the wallpaper was an affront to all that was good and holy. Hopefully the smell would get thrown out with it.

The kitchen was little more than a camper's stove and a sink, which was just as well. Two rickety chairs crowded up to a tiny breakfast table that had seen better days. I was far more interested in the old piano that took up the wall across from the fireplace. I didn't expect much, what with the exposure and the humidity it must have suffered over the years, but I still let out a disappointed sigh when the keys refused to be pushed, much less make any sound. I took a peek inside; the strings actually didn't look too bad. I already had the Steinway baby grand anyway, but it would be a shame to send it to a junkyard. Maybe I could find a local piano repair shop that enjoyed restoring hard luck cases.

Just like the main house, the cottage seemed bigger inside than out. I followed a little hallway—it was arched like the front door, as though I had wandered into a tiny castle—and found a generous bedroom matched against two smaller rooms. No signs of plumbing ever having been installed: that would give Esme a pleasant challenge.

The whole thing was perfect. Maybe if Rosalie and Emmett spent enough time out here, they would even agree to switch bedrooms with me. I didn't exactly need a full suite, but I wouldn't say no to my own shower and enough room for all my books to come out of their boxes. They were getting the better deal by far; this place was a jewel. And it felt right, somehow; it had been a shame to see the hunting cottage back at our old Hoquiam place fall into disrepair. Having this little find on our new property seemed to make up for it.

I headed back to the main house, wondering who had lived out at the cottage once upon a time, and why. I supposed it might be as old as the house, or even older; there could have been a whole line of occupants. The cottage had its own little story to tell. Perhaps it had been used as a mother-in-law unit once: a whimsical grandmother with plenty of cats and plenty of time to tend her roses. Then a little honeymoon retreat for a blushing couple who had set up house with a second-hand breakfast table, then a brooding pianist who needed solitude to work on his compositions.

And now it would house a pair of lovesick vampires who would hopefully leave it in one piece and pass it on to continue the story. The older we all got, the more distanced we felt from stories like these, no matter how picturesque the setting or how vivid an imprint our renovations left behind. But I supposed we were just stewards like the rest: here for a day, then nothing more than a fading memory.

#cute!#💗💗💗

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needahugfromesme · 3 days

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Do you ever think about how, because mirrors weren’t commonplace until the industrial revolution, Jasper and Carlisle don’t remember what they look like? That Jasper doesn’t know he had scars before? From the time his mule kicked him in the shin, and when he fell out of a tree rescuing his sister, and twice getting shanked by a bayonet. That he preferred wearing his hair shorter, but the war didn’t afford time for barbers?

That Carlisle doesn’t remember that a guy knocked him out at a bar and his nose healed out of joint? That he assumes his teeth were crooked but they weren’t, and that people used to say he had his mother’s smile?

That in the faintest edges of their minds, they recall others commenting how soulful their eyes were, and that’s the only reason at all they know their color?

But it’s just words, “brown”, “blue”…

…and that in the end, they don’t remember?

#ouch #poor guys #Carlisle probably saw himself on some polished metal surface and the distorted reflection made him think his nose was broken😂#Pastor Cullen definitely wouldn't buy mirrors even the cheapest smallest and low-quality ones #Imagine little Carlisle looking for flat reflective surface or trying to sneak into inns and barbershops #to get a peek of himself in the shared mirrors whenever people said that he looked his late mother

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needahugfromesme · 3 days

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suspenders: on ao3 here.

2011.

A wolf whistle stopped Carlisle mid-step as he walked down the second-floor hallway.

“Someone’s getting lucky,” Emmett sang, his signature heavy footsteps coming up quickly behind Carlisle.

“That is the hope,” Carlisle said quietly, eyes fixed on his freshly shined shoes, mindlessly twisting his wedding band.

“I’d fuck you,” Emmett chuckled, his strong hand briefly landing on Carlisle’s shoulder as he used the leverage to push himself forward.

Carlisle’s brows furrowed as he looked over at the young man. “If you were a woman and my wife, of course?”

“Don’t be weird. I’d do it as me,” Emmett frowned as if Carlisle was broaching the confines of their relationship with his suggestion.

“Oh, thank you?”

“Anytime, Buddy,” Emmett elbowed Carlisle’s arm as the two began to resume their walk down the hall. “She’s been gone what, a month right?”

“Two months, three weeks, and six days,” Carlisle responded a second too quickly to seem normal.

His wife had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime, lead designer and contractor of a historic restoration project. The original architect had been one she had admired for nearly a century, and the chance to fully restore his work had been one she under no circumstances could refuse, even if the project required her to live on-site.

“Not that you’ve been counting,” Emmett chuckled.

“Of course not. I support my wife in all her endeavors, even the ones that require her to live in a different country for two months, three weeks, six days, and seventeen hours.” “That was almost believable,” Emmet said as they reached the staircase.

“Good, I’ve been practicing.”

“Have fun,” Emmett grinned, punching Carlisle’s arm one last time, before jumping over the railing onto the first floor — an act he was strictly prohibited from doing while Esme was home — and bounding out the front door.

Carlisle made his way down the stairs in a dignified manner, futzing with the drape of his sweater as he walked. He stopped in the first-floor foyer, examining his reflection in the entryway mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair once, twice, a third time. The lock at the front of his hair refused to stay gelled back, stubbornly falling on his forehead. His wife once remarked it made him look like ‘Clark Kent’s’ alter ego, he thought it made him look like a bum.

“Someone’s dressed up,” Rosalie said from the living room.

“Do I look alright?” Carlisle asked, turning to face her, holding his arms out at either side.

“Better than you usually do, but that’s not saying much,” she said from her spot on the couch. A disassembled speaker lay on the coffee table in front of her. A soldering iron in her hand as she pieced two parts back together.

“You know some people do find me half-decent looking.”

“I am painfully aware. You forget Esme and I are friends,” she sighed, turning her attention back to her project.

Carlisle took the move as a sign the conversation was over and turned back to the entryway mirror. His focus was fixed on his tie this time. It was light blue floral silk. Esme had bought it on one of their first trips to Paris, remarking it complimented his eyes.

“Speaking of Esme,” Rosalie said, dropping her voice so the rest of the house could not hear her unless listening intently, “did you know she enjoys a high-waisted pant?”

“Does she? I feel as if most of her pants have a reasonable - Oh, you are referring to my trousers.”

“I did not say that,” Rosalie said but he could see in the mirror she was nodding her head. “I did not say she thinks a pant like you used to wear in the thirties are becoming or quote accentuates your hips.”

“Good to know,” Carlisle said, turning to walk back up the stairs, appearing to be nonchalant. “On other news, I believe I forgot something upstairs.”

He was halfway down the hall when Rosalie quietly called after him, “Suspenders.”

“Suspenders?”

“Yes, but wear something over them.”��

“Thank you,” Carlisle said, resuming his walk toward his bedroom.

“I didn’t tell you that.”

“Of course not.”

Once in his bedroom he fetched a pair of dark brown high-waisted wool trousers from the very back of his closet and tried them on. He examined himself in the floor-length mirror, turning and posing. He supposed they did accentuate his hips. Was that a good thing? He clipped on a pair of suspenders and slipped a slate blue sweater over the ensemble. With one more glance in the mirror, he admitted he did look better.

He switched the pants he had previously neatly tucked in his duffel bag for two pairs of high-waisted trousers that he had not worn since 1974 when Alice broke the news they were dreadfully out of style. Another set of suspenders was thrown in the bag, just in case.

Truthfully he did not need to primp as if he was courting her again. His wife would surely arrive at the private airpark smelling of construction crews and latex-based paint, in a pair of dusty stained coveralls. Yet, there was something exhilarating about the preparation, a giddiness similar to the first time he asked her to accompany him on a hunt. As close to a date as they could manage back in those days. Hopefully she still found him as charming.

Two at a time he made his way back down the stairs. He looked over to the entryway mirror one last time, running his hands through his hair, brushing the lock of hair back, it promptly fell when he removed his hand. With a sigh, he turned away from his reflection.

Before leaving he popped his head into the living room doorway, Rosalie had been joined by Edward, Renesmee, Alice, and Bella. Bella and Edward were tucked into an armchair reading from the same book. Alice was scrolling on her laptop. Renesmee sitting on the couch next to Rosalie, picking up a piece of the speaker turning it over in her hands, and then putting them back in the wrong place on the table.

“I’m off to the airport,” Carlisle said. “We will be back soon. Do not burn down the house, please.”

“Can I go with you?” Renesmee pleaded in a manner that was not age-appropriate, but he suspected was a result of being raised by nine adults she had wrapped around her finger.

“Yet again, no you may not,” Carlisle said.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“Ugh,” Ness groaned, slumping in her seat. “I haven’t seen Grandma in months. I have so much to tell her.”

“I assure you she will want to hear every detail when we’re back in a week.”

“A whole week?” Edward asked quietly, looking up from the book he and Bella were reading.

’You have absolutely no room to talk. How many times I have served as a babysitter?’ Carlisle thought with a raised brow.

Edward nodded in concession, pressing his lips together as he returned his attention to the book in his wife’s hands.

“This outfit of yours is awful,” Alice complained. “Why do you never wear anything I buy you?”

“Your last purchase was a lobster-patterned three-piece suit,” Carlisle said.

“It was nautical.”

“I think he looks fine,” Rosalie said, glancing up briefly.

“That’s quite a compliment, coming from her,” Edward teased.

“Thank you, Rosalie,” Carlisle said, picking his keys up from the entryway rack, and opening the front door. “Goodbye, don’t cause any chaos, please. And if you do… I am begging you, don’t call.”

#THIS IS SO ADORABLE!!!!💗💗💗

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needahugfromesme · 3 days

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#Chose Esme for personal reasons🤭

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needahugfromesme · 3 days

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I know we like to joke about how Jasper whined when in Breaking Dawn Carlisle was like "Oh yes I just happen to have some human blood stored here in the house."

But I actually think he (Jasper) was genuinely angry about it because of the battle in Eclipse. When Jasper was "thinking about cheating" in order to optimize his strength, we don't know if that plan was about murder or bagged blood. But either way I think he must have approached Carlisle re: all of them having some bagged blood and been dead serious about it.* Carlisle said no and reminded him of how having human blood in your system is a huge setback in terms of self-control, that blood is for humans who need it, the wolves might not understand, etc.

"But it turns out you had already had blood ready to go, didn't you? You don't seem to mind giving your own granddaughter a taste for human blood day after day, even though she can eat human food. I guess spoiling her is more important than giving your family every chance to survive the biggest danger we've ever faced. You're training her to want human blood in full view of the wolves. And what do you think that'll do for her self-control in the end?"

I like to think that this was the day Carlisle decided it was time to wean Renesmee off human blood.

---

*Even if it didn't occur to Eclipse!Jasper to approach Carlisle re: bagged blood, I still think BreakingDawn!Jasper was angry. "You knew we were working to give ourselves every advantage, and you also knew what human blood can do for our performance. And you didn't offer this as an option?"

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needahugfromesme · 4 days

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By an act of fate Charles Evenson finds himself in Ashland, Wisconsin searching for his missing wife. cw: references to domestic abuse and infant death.

on ao3 here.

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 6:07 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life before the front door had a chance to slam shut.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries were heard by no one but a confused, but sympathetic, doctor.

__________________________________

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:01 AM.

Union Depot. Ashland, Wisconsin.

A steam whistle pierced the air as Charles Evenson’s train lurched out of the station, without him.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the depot. He desperately bent over to catch his breath, his knees cracking as they moved. Between the bullet in his hip and his age, the sprint across the station had his irregular pulse pounding against his skull. He grimaced as a toddler waved at him from the train window, pointing at him and then getting his mother’s attention. Charles lazily waved at the young woman gaping at him through the moving window, sneer never leaving his face. She caught his gaze, quickly looking away, pulling her son from the window in what seemed to be a mix of guilt for catching the train and… fear.

“Excuse me, sir,” a shrill woman’s voice said behind him. He took a deep breath, attempting to wipe the irritation off his face, and turned to face the voice. An older, stout woman was standing in front of him, holding his wallet and cane in her hands. “I believe, you dropped these.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking his belongings. In his haste, he had failed to notice.

“Did you miss your train?” She asked.

It was such a pity for a woman to have neither brains nor beauty, hopefully she was a half-decent cook. Although perhaps she was not as dim-witted as she appeared and used idiocy as a ruse to cover a much larger sin for a woman to possess: inquisitiveness.

“Yes. I did not realize the service I took from Saint Paul was to a different station,” he huffed, tucking the wallet back into his coat pocket.

Charles had naively believed his secretary could book his trip efficiently. Misplaced faith meant he was forced to run a mile and a half in a Wisconsin winter in ten minutes, miss his train, and endure a dull conversation with a prune.

“You are not the first to make that mistake,” she smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and crooked.

He refrained from rolling his eyes, the woman was older than his mother, and he could be polite, even if it took every ounce of his willpower.

“You are from Saint Paul?”

“No, I live in Columbus. I was in Minnesota for work.” The work was smuggling hundreds of dollars worth of moonshine, a detail best kept secret.

“The only other train East today is towards Chicago. It doesn’t leave until nine this evening.”

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Charles sighed. He flipped open his wallet and searched for a bill. His fingers first found a five but he quickly stuffed it back, fishing out a single dollar bill instead.

He extended the dollar to the woman, she waved it off with her wrinkly bony fingers. What would it take to get her to leave?

“No, no. Enjoy your time in Ashland. Perhaps now you can say hello to Mrs. Bauer,” she said, slowly walking away from the platform and back to the main doors.

“Who?” He called after her, leaning down to pick up his baggage.

“The woman in the photograph,” she said, turning to face him. He frowned and she quickly amended her statement. “Your wallet was open to a woman’s picture. Anne Bauer is it not?”

His eyebrows furrowed. Was there a picture in his wallet?

He dug in his pocket for the wallet, and flipped it open, greeted by a woman he had not seen in nearly eight months: his wife.

Paul — Charles’ third eldest brother — had offered to take their portraits as a wedding present. Charles had still thought of her as lovable when he slipped the print in his wallet, the day before he left for the Front. It had been against protocol — which dictated all identifying artifacts were removed from your body — yet carrying a reminder of a woman he liked the idea of seemed necessary at the time.

They had their… differences, and in the eight or so months he had lived without her he had missed her a handful of times. The morning he awoke to find her gone — four sunrises after she truly left — he had been livid, which was quickly taken over by fear. The blood in their marital bed, the dried dirt under his nails, the occupied grave he had dug in her parent’s orchard. Details pointing to a sinister answer, she did not leave him in a fit of hysteria, he had escorted her out of this life.

Reluctant to admit, even if only to himself, that he was a murderer he had visited her cousin in Milwaukee, who had once harbored her for two weeks. Mary swore on her own children’s lives she had not seen his wife and threatened to report the disappearance and all she knew about Charles’ conduct to the authorities if he did not leave.

He returned home and concocted a lie about how he came home one night to find the lock broken and his wife missing. The neighbors who had heard screams of terror and fits of rage did not believe this lie, but they never said a word otherwise which is all that mattered.

It had not crossed his mind she could still be alive, his conscious free. He held the wallet out to the old woman whom he was praying was confused. “This was the photograph?”

“Yes. That’s her, the widow who teaches in Washburn.”

That bitch.

“You are a friend of hers?” She raised her left eyebrow at the word friend.

An emphasis, there was no mistaking the meaning of. It was odd for a man to keep an image of a woman, who was not his wife, on his person. Especially when the woman was in a wedding gown.

What relation would make it not odd?

“My sister. I had not planned on visiting her since the trip was intended to be short but seeing as I will be in town until late I may be able to visit.”

“Her brother,” the old woman smiled. “She’s such a sweet gal. Despite her circumstances. Has she had the babe yet? Last I heard she was almost due.”

His stomach lurched. She had still been home nine months prior. Of course, she could have betrayed him causing her to flee. But deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew this was not the case.

“We have not been able to write frequently as of late,” Charles lied, voice almost shaky. “She is busy, as you could imagine. Last I heard she had not, no.”

“Well, do give Mrs. Bauer my regards,” the woman said before finally turning away for good.

“Oh, I will.”

----------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:25 AM

Washburn, Wisconsin.

A crisp ten-dollar bill had been enough to convince the cab driver to take Charles twelve miles to the small shoreline logging town and wait for an hour.

In the almost half hour since he had realized his wife might be alive, and more significantly he might have a child, he wafted from well-disguised rage to sorrow. If it turned out that the crone in the station had a riddled memory and mistook his wife for an innocent widow would he be disappointed? If his wife was alive and well could he convince her to return home? How would he explain her initial disappearance or the potential child? Perhaps they could move?

He was getting ahead of himself, he first needed a plan to meet ‘Mrs. Anne Bauer.’ If Anne was his wife, he could not simply waltz into the schoolhouse and demand she accompany him. She was charming enough to convince the town he was a madman, a threat, a danger. He needed to meet without an audience, at her home. Yet, if Mrs. Bauer was a widow whose only sin was bearing a mild resemblance to his wife he could not approach her at home without being escorted out of town by a Sheriff.

As he approached the town’s tiny one-room post office he paused to observe the first townspeople he had seen. A middle-aged couple were making their way down the stairs, arms linked, the man carrying a stack of envelopes in his free hand. The woman’s face turned to surprise when she spotted a young blond man packing boxes into the back of an automobile.

“Dr. Cullen!” The woman exclaimed, dropping her husband’s arm.

The man, apparently a doctor, turned to face the woman and Charles was able to catch the man’s face. Odd, was the only way to describe the man.

“Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Birch,” Dr. Cullen said, stalling his packing to give them his full attention.

“I have been searching for you but you’ve been practically missing this past month. My niece is staying with us for the season, you must come for dinner,” the woman insisted.

“Oh, I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Birch. But I must decline, I have been told I am an awful dinner party guest, I am utterly incapable of upholding conversation not concerning diseases and organs.”

“Then I will serve goose liver,” she countered.

The doctor laughed but was unmoved. “Thank you but that will be unneccessary, Mrs. Birch.”

“I will convince you one of these days,” she said pointedly, turning back towards her husband and linking her arm through his again. “Do not let her persuade you, Doctor,” Mr. Birch said over his shoulder.

“Arthur, hush,” Mrs. Burch said, lightly smacking her husband.

The doctor smiled to himself as the couple walked down the street.

“If you told them the truth you were attached she would relent,” Charles said, walking towards the doctor.

“Oh, I am n- How did you? What gave you that impression?”

“You have the air of a man shackled by a doe-eyed girl.”

“I would not use the term shackled,” Dr. Cullen said quietly.

“Ah, you are hoping to be attached.” “Perhaps,” the doctor smiled at his feet.

Charles knew soon enough the young man would realize the trap that was a blushing innocent but for now, he was intoxicated by the thrill of a nice girl.

“Do you live around here?” Charles asked. He figured if anyone were to know the people of a town it would be the doctor.

“Yes, further North. I work in the city,” Dr. Cullen said, resuming sorting his packages. “You are visiting, I presume.”

“Yes, Anne Bauer, do you know her?”

The doctor froze for a split second, something that should have gone unnoticed. “I believe the name sounds familiar,” he said slowly, focusing unnaturally on his task. He had loaded all the boxes and was now unnecessarily sorting them.

“She’s a widow, currently expecting, a teacher.”

The doctor nodded, ‘mhm-ing’ to himself. A noncommittal, unsatisfactory answer.

Charles dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulling the photo out of the wallet. He handed the paper over to the doctor. “Her?”

The doctor held the photo delicately, staring at it for half a minute. “She is young here, but yes, I knew her,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from the image. “You knew her well?”

“Yes, yes, we’re quite close. If you could tell me wher—”

“I apologize for being the one to break this news, Anne passed last month.”

Charles could feel his jaw drop. His legs felt like river reeds, swaying in the stream. “She… She’s dead?”

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Dr. Cullen said with solemnity.

“The child?”

“Her son passed shortly before her, lung fever.”

Charles Evenson had a son that he lost every chance to know because of his own selfish, cruel actions.

“Th-thank you,” Charles told the doctor, starting to walk, more accurately stumble, back down the street. He did not hear the doctor call after him offering him the photo and asking if Charles was alright. His mind was lost in images of a son that never would be.

-------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 5:57 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

Carlisle could hear his two companions inside as he made his way slowly down the dirt driveway. The familiar banter was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. While the transition into their world had not been entirely smooth, Esme had become a priceless addition to his life.

“Oh, I loathe this one,” Esme sighed as Edward began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23.

“It’s Beethoven,” Edward responded curtly, continuing on with the composition with masterful precision.

“It is utterly depressing.”

“Depressing,” Edward scoffed.

Carlisle smiled to himself as he parked the automobile. Esme was still reluctant to express any of her opinions freely but when she did allow the two men to know her thoughts on music it often sparked heated debates.

“I imagine this is what plays in a murderer’s mind before he kills.”

“You have too vivid an imagination for your own good,” Edward teased.

Carlisle tried to open the door quietly, so as to not disturb the scene of domesticity but his efforts were interrupted by a pleasant, “Good evening, Dr. Cullen.”

“Good evening, Ms. Platt,” he said, moving quickly to join the pair in the sitting room.

“Please, call me Esme.”

“I will not drop honorifics while you insist on calling me Doctor,” he said for what had to be the twentieth time, earning him a roll of her eyes. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, listening to Edward play the “depressing” tune. Esme returned her attention to the book in her lap.

Carlisle allowed his eyes to slip close briefly while he listened. “I suppose it is rather intense,” he acquiesced, opening his eyes as Edward began to play even more passionately.

“Not you too,” Edward huffed, attention never leaving the keys.

“Thank you,” Esme smiled slightly, she still had yet to freely smile in the time he had known her. “How was your day?”

“Quite fine,” Carlisle said. For hours he had debated how to broach the subject of the man in town. Esme’s constitution was delicate, to put it mildly. To remind her she was mourned could be potentially disastrous. Yet, as soon as he saw her his resolve to keep the man a secret crumpled. “I met someone in town I would like to ask you about.”

“Oh?”

“He was quite charming, very personable. He was not from Ashland. You once mentioned you have a brother, correct?”

“Harry,” she nodded, “he died in the war.”

That complicated the matter. Carlisle had presumed by the man’s reaction he was a close dear connection, one personally affected by the loss. Her brother seemed the logical conclusion based on how Esme discussed her childhood. How awful for her to have lost both her beloved brother and husband to the war.

Edward’s fingers halted mid-note. “Carlisle,” he said between clenched teeth. “Think of that face again.”

Carlisle did as instructed, unsure what significance the old friend of Esme’s held in the boy’s mind. Although, Edward had been overly paranoid about leaving any trace of Esme in Washburn’s history, going as far as to erase hospital records that so much as mentioned her son. Whomever this past connection was had left Washburn without fuss as soon as he realized who he sought was no more. Edward was, as usual, overreacting.

“When did you see him?”

“A quarter past nine?” Carlisle guessed. “Edward, the man poses no threat.”

“You have no idea the threat,” Edward said, standing from his bench and storming out of the room in one swift furious move.

Esme’s gaze followed Edward from the piano to the doorframe, and a look of recognition hit her face. “Did he have a cane?” She asked quietly.

“Yes,” Carlisle said, turning his attention back to her. Esme’s eyes were wide with an emotion he dared say was fear. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Esme was off the couch and bolting after Edward. Carlisle followed out of pure confusion.

“Edward, please,” she pleaded, running down the hallway.

“Esme, stay,” Edward spat in a tone harsher than Carlisle had ever heard him use, throwing the front door open.

“Edward, do not do anything to him.”

“Go inside, Esme.”

“No,” she grabbed his arm. He flinched but froze in his step, refusing to use force to remove her. “You are not to find him. I am pleading with you.” Her voice was close to a tearless sob.

“Esme, the things he did to you,” Edward hissed. A statement that made Carlisle’s stomach turn. The things he did to you. The wedding portrait he had stored away in his medical bag. The man’s shock at the passing of her son. How Esme flinched every time someone raised their voice. No?

Edward nodded brusquely in Carlisle’s direction. “He must be dealt with.”

“Edward.”

“I will not kill him,” Edward said quietly, in a tone not entirely convincing. He placed one hand over Esme’s on his arm. “I promise.”

“Who is this man?” Carlisle asked, stepping towards the two. Although he presumed he knew a fraction of the answer already.

Esme glanced back at him eyes wide, mouth agape. Edward used her moment of distraction to pry himself away, marching towards the automobile.

“Esme will explain. I will be back.”

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries eventually turned into explanations which turned into tearless sobs.

When Edward finally did return it was with clean hands, finding Charles had unfortunately made his train and was out of Ashland, alive and well.

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