810Chapter 2
What does one wear to an assignment that involves an animal? I should've found out what kind of a dog it was, maybe it's a shedder. I eye my black pants and sigh, pairing them with the one shirt hanging in the closet that could pass for casual. Grabbing my only pair of flats, I figure it won't matter too much that I don't look as professional as I like. This isn't my typical sort of article, the kind where I need to bust balls and force my way into people's faces. There's no need to exude power over a townie and his hound. I'll save the power skirt and four-inch heels for something real.
Following the GPS down the street the restaurant is on, I see it's leading me past the somewhat scenic marsh I couldn't see last night, closer towards the coast. The houses here share a similar theme, white siding with gingerbread trim, growing larger the closer I get to the water. It's definitely living up to the cliché of a seaside community; Adirondack chairs pepper the porches and I've counted six lighthouse-shaped mailboxes.
As I turn down the street Edward Cullen lives on, my stomach rolls a bit when I hear the cry of seagulls, seeing he must have waterfront property. The houses here are much more impressive, more like you'd find out on Montauk. I grimace as I think about the one-time Michael and I took time off for leisure, the bed and breakfast we stayed in always damp-feeling. I've never been a fan of open water, whether it be ocean, lake, or manmade pond, and wonder if I put enough hair product in to tame any frizz.
Pulling up the curved pavers of the driveway to Edward Cullen's house, my eyes widen at the grand nature of the structure in front of me. Gray clapboard siding and white trim cover the frame, with shiny windows that stand unadorned, probably with the intention to showcase the ocean from any room. The wide porch holds beautiful furniture and a real porch swing, with large green plants dotted between. Well cared for flower beds line the walkway as I make my way to the front door, an intimidating white shaker double with pewter door knockers in the shape of ship knots.
Not seeing a doorbell, I lift the heavy metal and rap it against the door twice. I hear no movement inside, no dog barking, and check my watch to see if I got the time wrong. Aro said he'd be expecting me at nine o'clock, and it was exactly nine now. Peering through the slim glass in the casing of the door, I see no activity and huff at the rudeness of this man. Maybe he took the dog out onto the beach to do whatever it is this dog does? Not wanting to go in the back if I don't have to, I knock again and wait.
"Good morning!" I hear coming from the side of the house and turn, seeing the bartender from last night rounding the three-car garage and ambling towards me. I look at the house in confusion and then back at him. Realization starts to ebb in, and I close my eyes, rubbing a hand over my forehead.
"Let me guess, you're Edward Cullen."
"I am. You seem disappointed." The hint of amusement in his voice irks me.
"You could have told me that last night when I told you why I was in town."
"What fun would that have been?" He's actually wearing flip flops as his feet shuffle the rock-strewn path, making his way up onto the porch and pulling his hand out of his shorts pocket, holding it out to me. "Edward Cullen. Dog owner and the subject of your apparently annoying assignment."
Feeling embarrassed for my words last night, I take his hand and apologize. "I didn't mean anything by it. This is not typically the type of story I cover."
"I'll bet. I'm not sure why The New York Times is interested, quite frankly."
"Neither am I." I smile to cover my rudeness once again. "Okay, where's this amazing dog that the world needs to know about?"
"So eager to start. Why don't we have some coffee first, get to know each other?"
"Coffee actually sounds great. The machine in my room is less than desirable." And I'm dying to get a look at this house. How a bartender can afford it is intriguing. Maybe it's been in the family for years, and it was passed down to him. He's probably an actual 'townie'.
Turning away, Edward steps off the porch and begins to walk back the way he came. "Where…?"
"Oh, I don't live there," he says, nodding towards the house. "Come on." Hands back in pockets, he gestures with his elbow for me to follow, and with some resignation I walk over the stones behind him. Turning the corner of the garage, he opens a gate and ushers me through, latching it behind him. As much as I don't like the water, I can't lie and say the view isn't stunning.
The ocean beckons in an endless blue before us, laying past a rolling green lawn with perfect landscaping. He continues down the footpath that winds us closer to the water, and I see a cottage in front of us, a mini version of the main house complete with porch and flowering plants. "This is where I stay," he says as we near it. "I don't need much."
"Well, I'm sure a bartender here doesn't quite get paid what they do in Manhattan." I pull out my notepad and take down a few details.
"I'm sure that's true." He's staring at me through narrowed eyes, and I shift uncomfortably. I guess that wasn't exactly the most tactful thing I could've said, but if I'm going to get this story and leave, I need to get all the facts quickly.
"I didn't mean anything by that, just trying to get my job done. It can get intrusive, and you signed up for it."
"You're awfully abrasive, you know that?" He turns and opens the door, my mouth wide open behind him.
"I'm not abrasive."
"Whatever you say." He shrugs.
Fury rolls through me, but I tamp it down, even more determined to do a bang-up job so I can get the fuck out of dodge. "I apologize. I think we started off on the wrong foot here."
"Don't worry about it. Bartenders don't get paid a lot here. You're not wrong." He leads me into the cottage, a small but airy space with comfortable furniture and a whole wall of books. There's a fireplace in the center of the open floor plan, and as we walk into the kitchen area, I can see it's been designed for you to enjoy the fire from any room.
The kitchen is all white with a colonial feel. There's nothing sleek and modern here, right down to the old-fashioned fridge with an icebox. I get the feeling it's original, not a reproduction. The counters are butcher block, and I'm surprised to find I don't hate it. It fits in this cottage setting. Edward hands me a steaming hot cup of coffee, with Billy's Chowder House written in blue lettering. "Stealing from work?" I joke and wish I hadn't.
"Something like that." His lips twitch into a small smile, and I realize he gave me this mug on purpose. I narrow my eyes over the rim as I take a sip. "Come on, let's go out on the back porch. There's someone there you should meet."
"Lead the way." I envision my first meeting with a big labrador type manly dog wearing a bandana, dirty feet, and a penchant for the kind of loud barking that makes your ears ring. I hope he doesn't jump on me.
We pass through a set of open French doors, the breeze from the water making the sheer curtains billow. "Hey Joey, we have a visitor."
I startle slightly at the name, recounting last night. Of course. The girl that told him to give Joey a big kiss was talking about the wonder dog. Doesn't mean he's still not gay. I prepare myself for the onslaught of a barking, raucous dog but it never comes. Walking farther out onto the porch, I'm surprised when I see a white pouf of a pillow on the decking and a little brown dog with a smushy face.
This dog isn't manly at all. Edward Cullen is gay. No doubt.
Crouching down, Edward gives the dog a gentle pet, Joey's eyes closing in what seems to be pure comfort. "Joey, this is the nice lady I was telling you about, the one that came all the way from New York City to meet us." He looks up at me clutching my coffee and laughs. "He won't bite, I promise."
"I'm not afraid," I argue, and set my coffee down on the teak table. Might as well get this over with. "Hello, Joey. Nice to meet you."
Kill me, kill me now.
I lean over and pat the dog gingerly on the head. He seems to be okay with that, his eyes closing slightly. Standing back up, I sit in the chair closest to my coffee and farthest from Joey, pulling out my phone to use as a recorder. I flip to a clean page in my notepad. "Shall we start?"
Edward joins me at the table, scooching the dog pillow closer to him. "We have time." He sips from his own mug, one flip-flop-less foot rubbing against the dog's leg which it seems to enjoy, if the low rumble coming from its throat is any indication. It's like a dog meow I suppose. "Why don't you tell me why they sent you to write this? You're not a dog lover, obviously. How do I know you're up for the task?"
"You want my credentials?" My eyebrows are in my hairline.
He shrugs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Only fair."
I lean forward, setting my cup down in front of me a bit more forcefully than I should. "I've been writing for The New York Times for eight years, mostly on assignments that include international news. Foreign policy, the first democratic election in Syria, the continuing struggle in Ukraine, and the investigation of nuclear weapons in Russia. That sort of thing."
"Wow. You must be smart."
"I am." I stare at him, daring him to make another snide remark.
"You only write subjects from overseas? Nothing here in the grand ole' US of A?"
"I have, mostly disaster relief, protests at Capitol Hill, the growing immigration issues. Important news like that."
He doesn't say anything, his eyes looking me over from the notepad still clutched in my hand to the top of my head, which I can feel frizzing in the damp ocean air. "Hmm."
"What?" I say, irritably.
"Well, that's all very impressive, of course. Does make me wonder why you got assigned to this story, though. Did you do something wrong?"
"What? No!"
Edward leans forward and takes a sip from his coffee, his other hand raking through his hair. "There must be reporters that specialize in human interest stories, am I right?"
Angela and her bows. "There are, but I can write the hell out of anything and I'm always looking to further my craft. People love these types of stories and why shouldn't I get in on that side of the action too?" I'm not about to tell this joker that I'm being forced to do just that.
"But you don't really want to write this lame story, do you?" He smiles, resting his chin on his hand. In the reflection from the water, his blue-green eyes veer on the deep blue side. Beautiful eyes that are enjoying antagonizing the fuck out of me for no reason a little too much.
Shaking my head, I look away, my words from last night being thrown in my face. "I didn't mean that."
"I think you feel like you're being punished for something. What did you do?"
"Stop assuming you know why I'm here. This is about you, anyway. And your dog." I gesture to the animal currently licking his own privates. "Stop interviewing me."
"Just getting to know you. If you're going to spend time with Joey here and write about us, I need to know you're good enough for it."
Huffing, I pick up my mug. "I think I can handle it, bartender."
Letting the insult slide, his face turns from mocking to serious. "You need to do better than that."
"Excuse me?"
"Joey deserves better than some half-assed paragraph that gets pushed to a corner of page 12 because the writer didn't give a shit." He begins softly rubbing a spot on his chest above his heart as passion colors his statement, along with a bit of fury from his eyes, laced with something else. Regret? Annoyance?
No, not quite.
His eyes are shielding his real emotion from me. But there's something there. Something palpable.
My head cocks to the side ignoring his insult and grateful we're getting back on my turf. "Why does he? What makes you guys so special that The New York Times sends a reporter out to spend time with you?"
Edward breaks our gaze and leans down, his hand massaging the dog's back lovingly. I wait for him to answer, unsure he's going to, when he speaks enthusiastically to Joey like he wasn't just stony-faced a moment ago. "You ready to go, pal?"
"Where are we going?"
Standing, Edward picks Joey up, the dog nuzzling in his arms like he's used to being held like a baby and smiles excitedly down at me. "How do you feel about boats?"
I fucking hate boats.
It's not that I get seasick, there's just something about them I've always disliked. The smell of old salt water, the fiberglass shell that always has a sheen of moisture on it that never gets quite dry, the constant smell of fish that seems to permeate every inch that you can't get rid of. Boat owners never seem as happy as when they're on their beloved boats and want to talk about them endlessly.
Like Edward Cullen. He looks so damn smug steering his little wheel and pushing the chrome throttle to increase our speed as we skip along the shoreline. The breeze is ruffling his hair while his t-shirt flaps around his stomach, exposing bits of skin as tan as the rest of him.
Looking over at Joey in his little life vest, tail wagging and tongue hanging out, I begrudgingly admit he looks pretty cute standing next to Edward on the bench seat and make a few notes on my pad. The dog is obviously used to life on a boat, his little legs brace his body as the boat tilts to and fro, and I remember to take some pictures since I don't have the luxury of a photographer following me on this assignment. Taking my camera out of my bag is a chore; I'm having trouble maneuvering my arms around the life vest Edward insisted I put on after having to admit to him I don't know how to swim.
"So where are we going, exactly?" As I yell over to Edward, a chunk of my hair flies into my mouth, tasting like all the product I had to put in it to tame the ocean-air curls. Another reason I hate boats.
"Well, Joey's never seen the Nubble Lighthouse, so…"
And…? I thought I was here to write about a dog that does something. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Edward looks at me, confused. "It's something we've never done."
I don't get it. "So what?" I'm here to write an article, not play tourist.
"I thought you were just cold-hearted, but you really have no idea why you're here, do you?"
"Of course I do," I say adamantly, even though I'm concerned that I truly don't know, and he seems to be upset, or at least bothered, by this fact. Enough to call me the one thing I'm having a hard time dismissing because it seems to be Aro's opinion as well.
"Tell me." He slows the boat and rests his arm on the back of the seat, turning to me. Joey immediately takes the opportunity to climb into his lap which pays off for him when Edward begins scratching the things head.
"I'm here to write about you and your dog."
He says nothing, his eyes narrowing much like Joey's, which are closed in what appears to be sheer bliss. We're bobbing up and down on the water, and I begin to feel claustrophobic. My stomach begins to roll along with the waves. I need to get off this thing, right now. Defeated, I know the only way to end this boat ride is to admit my shortcomings. "Okay, you got me. I'm not exactly sure. My editor wasn't exactly forthcoming with the information. Why don't you just go ahead and tell me, and we can get on with it?"
A strange look appears on Edward's face as he pulls Joey closer to him, almost protectively. I watch as his hand pets the dog's head with a bit more force, causing the dog to rest closer against his chest, snuggling. The same spot he touched earlier when he got testy about my abilities. Without a word, he turns back around, arm still enclosing Joey close to his body, and starts moving us again through the water.
"You don't have to be such a jerk," I say petulantly, feeling like somehow, I just got chastised by this man yet again.
He says nothing, and I ride in the back with my arms crossed and colorful expletives running through my mind. Soon enough, I see where we're headed as it looms in front of us.
The rocky island is large, jutting out of the water stories above our heads. I've unfortunately been around lighthouses before, but this lighthouse is unlike any I knew existed. The requisite cylindrical light is there, but attached to it is a house, a pretty white two story with a picket fence and rolling green lawn. It's a quaint, Americana image, something I'm sure dons thousands of postcards in the little souvenir shops along the coast.
Still, it's beautiful, no question, and I'm silent as I look at it, eyes wide taking it in. I take a photo, tilt the camera, and take another. "So this is what it takes to make Bella Swan from New York speechless. A lighthouse. I'll keep that in mind."
I ignore him, continuing to look at the structure perched on its own jetty as he slows the boat some. People are gathered at the park that faces the island, taking pictures and looking at guidebooks. It is very picturesque, but come on, is it really a tourist attraction? It's not Michelangelo's David, for fuck's sake.
We continue past the lighthouse for a few miles where Edward parks in a marina. I feel a tugging at my chest and look to find Edward unbuckling my vest. There's a small smile playing over his lips as I stare at him, closer than he's been to me since I met him. His height makes me feel small, something I'm not used to as Michael is only a few inches taller than my 5'5".
But not small in the sense that I feel like a child. It's a feeling of comfort. Protectiveness. He exudes waves of it. It's a feeling I'm wholly unused to and wonder if the dog feels much the same when in Edward's arms. It makes me suck in air, an act that turns Edward's gaze from the latches on my vest to meet my eyes. I'm lost in their still blue depth of reflected ocean water, and as we bob in the wake of a passing boat, my head moves just as he bends over to place my vest on the seat, my mouth coming in contact with the top of his scalp.
"Ow! What are you trying to do, bite me?" His hand comes up to rub his head, and my hand moves to my aching teeth.
"The boat rocked me! You think I wanted to bang my mouth on your hard head?" My teeth pulse with the jolt of contact, and I suck my lips in and hold my hand over my mouth, confining the pain.
Joey breaks the argument with his barking, and Edward goes to take the vest off the pooch. "I know buddy, I want off this thing too." He looks back at me with a sharp expression. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Then let's go." He picks Joey up and nestles him under one arm, placing one foot on the dock and holding his hand out towards me. I hesitate, but take his hand, letting him help me off the unsteady vessel. There is a taxi waiting, and Edward seems to know the guy. They exchange some pleasantries and have a laugh about something that happened a week ago in town. The driver makes a big show of saying hi to Joey and giving him lots of pets. I narrow my eyes, trying to think of just what the story is here as we load into the car and head back towards the lighthouse.
Once there, we cross the parking lot that leads to the grassy area where everyone is viewing the lighthouse. The pooch is wearing a leash, but Edward continues to cradle him. "Doesn't that dog ever walk?"
"I like holding him."
"It's probably not good for it."
"Nope, probably not. And if you are going to be spending time with us, his name is Joey. Not 'it', 'that thing', or 'that dog'."
"Well, aren't you awfully sensitive about it."
He stops walking and turns, dead serious, and now I feel small like a child under his scrutiny. "When it comes to Joey, yes, I am." Something in his voice tells me to keep my mouth shut, the sarcastic wit that wants to bite out a snarky comeback dying inside me under his threatening ire.
What is it about this man that makes me want to apologize for the personality that's gotten me so far in life? "I'm sorry. I'll… do better."
His face softens as he tickles Joey under his chin. "I appreciate it." He looks away and sighs, like he's weighing his next thoughts. "Joey's not just my pet." Looking down at the squished face of his faithful companion, there's no question there's a look of pure love on both their faces. "He's my best friend."
Normally, I would've scoffed at that. At the idea that a human can love an animal more than another human. But I'm quickly getting the idea that there's nothing truer in Edward's life than what he just declared.
Biting the inside of my cheek and wishing I had my hand sanitizer, my hand lifts and rests on Joey's harness. My fingers scratch the fur underneath and I force out an apology. "I'm sorry, Joey."
At the mention of his name, his little head tilts in curiosity, something I find myself smiling at. "You know your name?" Again, his head tilts to the other side. I say a few other things, lilting my voice at the end of each sentence, and each time Joey's head tilts and his ears prick up.
It is pretty damn cute, I must admit.
"What kind of dog are you, Joey?" My fingers move to his head, where he leans in so that his furry head is leaning on my palm, eyes closed.
"He's a pug."
"I have to confess, I was expecting a labrador, or what are those things, pit bulls? Something big and manly."
Edward's mouth forms a small smile. "Sometimes the dog picks you."
We continue walking towards the edge of the park, to see the lighthouse better. "Is that how you got Joey? From a shelter or something?" I picture a line of dogs behind bars, all their tails wagging hard trying to impress upon visitors that they are the one worthy of choosing. I picture Joey there, among them, and it makes me feel a bit sad for the rest that didn't get to go home with such a loving owner.
"Something like that." Edward doesn't finish, instead pointing Joey towards the lighthouse and nodding his chin at me. "Isn't it great?"
I look at the lighthouse, the same one I saw from the boat and nod. Sure, it's nice. But it was just as nice from the boat.
"Come on." Edward starts walking towards the edge of the park, so I follow, traveling until we come to a man in a T-shirt that reads "Maine Parks and Recreation". Edward shakes the man's hand enthusiastically and raises Joey up a bit in his grasp.
"Mr. Sullivan, it's so nice to meet you. This is Joey. Thank you, for this." Edward remembers I'm with him and makes the introductions. "This is Bella Swan from The New York Times. She's writing a story about us; I hope it's okay that she's joined us today."
"Of course! Welcome! It's not every day we have a reporter from New York in our town." We shake hands, and I wait for whatever it is we're going to do. "And both of you, call me Pete. Right this way."
Pete leads us down a wooden staircase nestled on the side of the cliff, leading to what resembles a Ferris wheel car. It's a tight squeeze, and I feel Edwards leg brush mine as he lifts his knee to perch Joey on, letting him look out the front of the car. A motor whirrs, and suddenly we're moving. I look up to see the car moving up the side of the rock, suspended from two cables.
"Unfortunately, the tram isn't in service much anymore, there are no permanent residents in the lighthouse. Hasn't been since 1987. We come out once a month or so just to make sure everything is okay, maintain the landscape, that sort of thing."
Watching the slow ride to the island, I'm captivated by the circumstances I've found myself in and mentally write some notes. Did Edward get this ride special just for Joey? "What about the light? Is it still in use?" I ask instead, watching Edward watch Joey, his tongue hanging out and his little tail wagging up a storm.
"The light works, but the horn has been replaced by a fancy new VHF system. Automated." Pete shakes his head, as if in shame. "A boat sends out a signal if it needs guidance when a fog rolls in, and the system lets out a mechanical sound. Not the same as the eerie, low hum of the original foghorn."
Slowly we make our way on the cables towards the island. The tram latches into its docking station, and Pete lets us walk out first. Edward puts Joey down and removes his leash from his harness, letting the dog sniff around. Pete points out some highlights of the property and tells Edward and I to wander around for a few minutes, he'll wait for us at the tram.
Joey meanders up the small hill towards a red shed-like building, Edward and I following slowly behind.
"So you asked for this special treatment for Joey?" I ask as I watch Joey pee against a bush and wonder what the people watching from the shore think.
"I made a call." Edward shrugs, like this isn't a big deal.
"I get the feeling they don't do this all the time." We walk in silence, and I lose myself in how pretty it is. I'm not one for quaint, or country, or cozy, but even I have to appreciate how beautiful a scene it is. I take some pictures of Joey, of Edward, of our surroundings, and try to figure out just what Aro is going for here.
"Is this a special place for you and Joey?"
Edward looks at me, then looks away, a smile on his face like he knows what I'm trying to do. "Nope."
I can do this; I can figure out this big mystery. "Okay, so nothing special about the place," I muse out loud. "I guess you're not on a lighthouse tour of the east coast?"
Edward laughs, his head tipped back slightly. "Nope."
Joey stops walking and lies down on the green lawn, his body indenting the softness of the grass that actually looks quite comfortable. He pants a while and yawns.
"I think I admit defeat, Edward. Why did you feel the need to bring Joey here?"
Edward's eyes sparkle in the warm sunlight that escapes an overhead cloud. "We've never ridden in the tram before."
"So… you're trying to travel on things you never have?" I wrinkle my nose and hide my face, hoping Edward doesn't see that I still have a bit of incredulity in me. Why is this a story?
"Not exactly."
"You're very frustrating." I cross my arms and stare out over the water.
"And apparently you can't quite find an angle. Not a very good reporter, if you ask me."
I stare, open mouthed, while Edward picks Joey up off the lawn. The dog licks his face and I swear, puts his paws around Edward's neck like he's giving him a hug. I've never seen a display like this between dog and owner, except those gross trainers that feed treats directly from their mouths to show dogs.
And then I think it hits me, out here on this majestic island with no one but us around. What's special here is the relationship between these two, not what they're physically doing.
What I still don't get is why this is New York Times worthy, but maybe I've finally got a jumping off point.
Flicking through the photos I captured with my digital camera later in my room, I look for anything I missed with my naked eye. Picture after picture of Joey, mostly in Edward's arms. Most that I got of the dog while he was on the ground are of Joey alone, but the ones that have Edward on the fringe of the frame show the same thing. I zoom in on Edward and flip through again. It's there, as expected, a look of pure adoration with a hue of another color creeping in. His hand over that spot on his chest.
It's the same look on his face I couldn't quite place a finger on at the cottage.
Sadness.
Don't forget if you want to get on the mailing list, email me at planetbluefic at gmail dot com to get chapter alerts!
Carrie ZM and LayAtHomeMom are wonderful. All errors are mine.
This is for Squiggy.