Author's note: this was my submission for the Babies at the Border fundraiser, where Edward, and Bella's maternal grandmother meet. During a Tarts & Vicars party. Enjoy!

~ Erin Affleck

Upstate New York

Bloody hell, he thought, hearing the thoughts walking towards him.

"Scuse me, er, uh . . . reverend?" the boy asked hesitantly, a finger shifting the collar of his rough blue shirt away from his reedy neck.

"Yes," Edward said, not rolling his eyes, and not making eye contact. He was pretending to watch the low clouds skimming the sky above them.

"I have a package. Can you sign for it?"

"Sure," he mumbled, and took the tentatively presented pen, applying his signature without looking.

"Thank you, sir," the boy mumbled, scurrying away from this uncomfortable authority figure.

Why, Edward moaned again internally, why did Emmett have to choose this . . . this ridiculous incarnation for his birthday party?

His fake birthday party.

And why did he have to be pulled into it?

The answer was not long in coming around the corner.

"Ooh! Goody! I saw you signing for it!" Alice said, skipping towards him and snatching the package into her arms. She stopped, abruptly, catching the drift of his mood. "Still sulking?"

Edward just looked at her.

The newest, and most flagrantly social of all the family members, Alice had egged Emmett on in planning this potential disaster.

"It isn't like it hasn't been done by several people in the area already," Alice had said, "just not well. Not like we'll do it."

"Because it won't draw attention to us at all. Oh no, none," Edward had grumbled.

Carlisle had been remarkably devoid of concern, and showed an unusual level of indulgence with this ridiculous fantasy of Alice's.

A bloody Vicars and Tarts party.

The guests had arrived. They were well plied in spirits, and Emmett, Rose and Alice were in their natural elements. Esme too, he supposed, and Carlisle. That just left him to sulk, and Jasper to weave in and out of the social periphery, disappearing when the smell became too much.

Which was often.

The Vicar part was simple enough. All of the Cullen men wore plain black suits and the requisite white tab collars. The women took to the term 'tart' with a much wider interpretation.

Alice wore a nineteenth century burgundy bordello dress that revealed only her face and hands, while the whalebone hugged the curves of her hard flesh. It had, Edward had to admit, a most effective impression on most of the men who had shuffled onto the property. They weren't noticing anything different about any of the Cullens, not with that outfit. Esme and Rose chose more elegant variations of the term, Rose wearing a demure silk Kimono, and Esme in a long French wrap and heels. The term 'tart' was hardly applicable.

He wished he could say the same of the other guests.

Some were barely dressed. Some were dressed badly, and almost all of them were hoping the premise of the party was a thin screen for the unravelling of other social strictures.

Ugh.

Edward was trying very hard to be seen, but not encountered.

He'd already fended off Mrs. Hawthorn, whose ample figure was clad in a well worn pair of fishnet stockings, and thick lingerie that did nothing to enhance, or constrain, her corpulent dowdiness. She was already lubricated beyond decency, and the party had only really begun in the last hour.

What, he supposed, did one expect, when you invited your guests to a party where only underwear was considered a suitable clothing option?

At least none of the high school teachers had come. He supposed he should be grateful for that.

He didn't want to witness the flipping of their prudery into the prurience alcohol seemed to enable.

No.

He knew he was being morose in the extreme, but after so many years of being the sole singleton, alone at party after pretentious party, the pretense of contentment was harder to maintain.

Carlisle had come round the other side of the house to welcome a few late arrivals. After graciously doing so, he wandered as unobtrusively as he could towards Edward.

"Carlisle," Edward said quietly, by way of greeting.

"Edward," he replied, in a tone that suggested far more reproach than any human could detect.

"I know," Edward said. "I'm not blending in," he muttered, ignoring the spin of Carlisle's thoughts.

Carlisle looked at him, concern clear on his face. If Edward was upset enough to miss his thoughts, this was unusual in the extreme. "Actually," he said, raising his eyebrows, "I thought you were doing an excellent job of blending in. Everyone expects teenage boys to sulk."

Edward turned his face partway to his father and glowered.

Carlisle nodded. "Impressive, if it wasn't so real."

Edward rolled his eyes again. "I suppose I'm still surprised you're embracing this," he said, gesturing to his father's collar.

Carlisle gave a small and wry grin. "Considering the noble purpose, yes."

Edward conceded this with a sigh. They'd included a note at the bottom of the invitations, asking that in lieu of gifts, donations be made to the hospital.

"This is certainly far more comfortable than the clerical garb I wore in my human life," Carlisle said, still smiling.

Edward didn't respond, but winced a little, hearing social Carlisle's intentions. "No thank you," he mumbled.

"They're quite lovely," Carlisle said, ever gracious and genuine. What other doctor would spare time for the man who cleaned the hospital? Or invite him to his son's party?

Edward listened, picking out the man's thoughts easily. They were so loudly nervous and concerned with not committing a social faux pas, they were hard to miss.

"Come," Carlisle said, "I'm sure you don't want to appear in need of consolation."

Lord, no, Edward thought, remembering Mrs. Hawthorn with a near shudder.

Carlisle nodded to the guests, smiling gently as they went, making polite conversation.

Edward continued to play his role as sullen teenager to a T, following after him.

"Michael," Carlisle said, "I don't think you've met my son, Edward. Edward, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Higginbothom."

"My wife, Marie, Dr. Cullen" Michael said. She bobbed her head politely.

Edward looked into a face well worn with sun, and cares, but smiles too, and nodded with a polite "pleased to meet you, sir."

"And you too, Edward," the man said. His wife only smiled softly.

Michael and Carlisle chatted quietly, Edward purportedly looking on, but he was doing his best not to stare at Marie Higginbothom, who was looking every bit as awkward as her husband was feeling. How she was feeling, and what she was thinking, though, were thoroughly muted. He could catch fragments of her thoughts, but only that, and these were set almost to an inaudible volume.

One word was louder than the rest, and this almost smacked him, it was so forceful.

Disgusting.

Her face was placid, though, judgement screened away.

While her husband was dressed in a well worn suit, shiny at the seams, a homemade paper collar tucked into his shirt, she wore a simple dress, eschewing the premise of the party.

How interesting.

"Are you enjoying the party, Mrs. Higginbothom?" he asked, the charade of his manners beyond reproach.

"It's . . . lovely," she managed, the downward intonation betraying her insincerity.

Not a liar then.

Carlisle did not acknowledge this obviously failed deception, but pretended to cough, turning away to let her compose herself again.

They were just inside the living room's french doors, the long patio outside filled with guests. Mrs. Higginbothom glanced at the chessboard that was set on a pedestal table, pushed to the side of the room.

"Do you play?" Edward asked.

"Does she ever!" Her husband answered for her.

She blushed. It made her face, so care-worn and lined with worry, luminous.

The contrast was stunning.

"I do," she said softly.

"Went to the county finals when she was in school," her husband went on.

She shot him a look.

She didn't like being spoken about then. Interesting. Edward wondered if she muted her thoughts this way, by self-effacement.

Perhaps.

"Would you care for a game?" he asked. It was only polite, he told himself.

It was also a rare opportunity to actually be able to play someone. Without hearing their thoughts.

"That would be lovely," she said.

Edward wasted no time, but pulled out a chair, holding it for her, and then found a second for himself.

"Thank you," he said quietly, "I'm not the most social creature."

This drew up the corner of one of her lips. "Neither am I," she murmured, making the first chess move.

Emmett drifted by, pausing to raise a speculative eyebrow at Edward. Really? He thought to him, you can't find anything better to do than play chess with old ladies?

Edward pointedly ignored him.

Emmett shrugged and walked on. He'd ask later. Clearly, he was having more fun than Edward, and was off to find Rose. For more fun.

Twilight had descended, and in the natural darkening, several guests had gone to 'explore' the well kept gardens that surrounded the property. These, of course, bordered on the woods, and Edward ignored the sounds of the activities their guests found private space for.

He was most attuned to the minds of those he knew, and he kept himself open to that of his family.

Alice was busy, happily smoothing human interactions and lubricating awkward conversations with her verbal pitter patter. A small grin pulled up his own lips, hearing her contentment. She thrived on such triumphs. So long as she didn't make him participate in them, she could have them.

Esme and Carlisle were circulating, ever the gracious hosts.

Emmett and Rose had found each other. And a quiet spot. He swept his attention over their rudimentary thoughts.

Mrs. Higginbothom countered his move with one he expected.

He sighed mentally. Disappointing.

Then her mind shouted: whores! As two women walked by.

They were known Jezebels. Female philanderers. It was irrelevant to Edward, and didn't ruffle his own morality, but he'd heard the sneers in the minds of others already.

He flicked his gaze back up to her, as if attempting to evaluate the look on her face. It was as impassive as his.

Definitely more interesting.

"Your move," she said, taking a sip of a cocktail she'd just taken, offered by one of the passing servers.

Then, because he'd just met him, and his worried thoughts were fresh to Edward, the shocked ruminations of one Mr. Michael Higginbothom reached him.

Claire. She's here. Oh my God. Haven't seen her since—

A flurry of pained images rippled across his consciousness. Some for public consumption. Some not.

Claire Aldine, Edward surmised, was married to the newest doctor in town, who'd moved up state to give his family more space to breathe in. A break from the city.

Michael's mind was thickening with a love left long ago, but by no means abandoned, thoughts desperate and almost concupiscent. Claire Aldine's were a perfect mirror of her own.

Having spotted each other at a distance, their inverted orbits were widening as they made the barest chatter with those they encountered, moving further and further outwards into the garden. Into the woods.

"Your move," Mrs. Higginbothom said, again.

He'd been so lost in the whirl of thoughts, he'd forgotten his play.

"Sorry," he murmured, smiling in apology.

She smiled back. Meanwhile, screened by thick trees, her husband had gripped Claire Aldine's face, and pulled it into a kiss that spoke of want, and longing and regret.

"Oh God," he whispered, letting go of her, "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

Edward captured a pawn, letting the base of the marble click against the polished wood. "Your move, Mrs. Higginbothom."

She arched an eyebrow in appreciation, and then studied the board some more.

"Do you play much?" she asked, eyes still scanning the space between them.

"A little," he said. It was the most stretched truth. He played frequently, but not with anyone whose mind he couldn't sift through.

Claire Aldine was glad she hadn't worn makeup, because her eyes were running with tears, and her heart with stronger things. "They made me give her up. I don't know who took her—and then you were gone—I knew you didn't leave—"

"They ran me out, Claire. I got jumped on the way home, and woke up on a train—I'm so sorry—"

"It's OK," she whispered, running her hands over her face. "I knew you hadn't left by choice."

"It was a girl?" Michael breathed.

"She was beautiful," Claire whispered, more than words watering this statement.

Mrs. Higginbothom captured Edward's knight.

He barely noticed.

"You're married," Michael hushed back, holding her fingers.

"Yes," she said, picking up his hand and fingering the band there. "You too."

"Is he good to you?"

"Yes," she hushed out. Then wiped her hand at her eyes.

"Don't," Michael implored, and chased away the next tears with a well placed kiss.

"Edward?" Mrs. Higginbothom called, watching him.

"Sorry," he murmured. He'd been staring again. Avoiding his turn.

Mrs. Higginbothom's—Marie's—thoughts were louder now, as she stared.

They were lonely ones.

And he was in them.

Oh.

His forehead rippled, registering only a trace of the more profound mental wince he made.

She'd drunk just enough to loosen whatever it was that'd kept her mind closed to him.

In the woods, the desperate kisses between Claire and Mr. Higginbothom had progressed. The fly of his trousers was open, and his arms, lithe from his gritty work, lifted her easily against the warm embrace of a white oak's smooth bark.

Marie Higginbothom thought Edward was looking at her.

Her own thoughts laid bare a marriage once warm, grown tepid.

They had one child, Edward realized, and not because they'd tried for more and failed.

The sounds from the woods were inescapable to him now, both physical, and mental.

"I've missed you so much," Claire whispered to him, moaning her words into his hair.

"I never stopped loving you, Claire," Michael hushed back.

Mrs. Higginbothom's foot was a shrinking inch from Edward's.

"I'm surprised," she said, "a handsome young man like you. Not being more social." She arched an eyebrow at him. "I'm sure you're quite popular at school."

Her words, so circumspect, smacked against her distinctly graphic thoughts.

She was not imaginative in that regard, but clearly she was passionate.

There were no trees involved in what she wanted. The chess table would do fine.

He smiled politely, trying to move his foot back when she hooked his ankle with her bare toes. Her shoe had disappeared.

Very slowly, so as not to hurt her, he lifted his foot up, and back.

"It's your move, Mrs. Higginbothom."

"Marie," she corrected him. "You're old enough, I think, for that."

Then she skewered his testicles with her toes.

It didn't hurt, but it would have, if he'd been human.

"Yes," she said, "it is my move."

He tried to make an appropriate imitation of the expected, mortal response.

After a moment, he answered in a tight voice.

"Clearly, Mrs. Higginbothom, you're the superior player. I concede the game."

Then he stood. Stiffly, nodding at her politely, going to move away.

Her grip on his forearm was tighter than he expected. She was fierce. Determined.

For a human.

"You can't scare that easily," she said coyly. "Stay. Let me teach you a few things."

The tutelage she envisioned played out in his mind.

Mrs. Hawthorne was looking like better company every passing minute.

"That's very kind of you, but I should pay my respects to our other guests."

"Afraid of what a woman might teach you, Edward?"

So very determined.

Michael Higginbothom and Claire had reached the near conclusion of their own exchange, both louder than was wise, the sound travelling to the ears of a few others, not so similarly engaged, or distracted.

He pretended to clear his throat. "I think your husband might not appreciate such instruction."

She was fast, moving quickly to cut off his exit with her body, forcing him to step back into the corner they were in. "My husband," she hissed, "wouldn't care if I tutored your hallway newel post in sight of half the party."

He raised his eyebrows at this rather inventive image.

"I think he might," Edward answered demurely, noting that at least Mr. Higginbothom had made an attempt at concealing his indiscretion.

If it could be called that.

Their more visceral interaction concluded, Claire and Michael were smoothing each other's cheeks and clothes in a way that offered more intimacy than anything Edward had seen in Mrs. Higginbothom's mind.

She was a creature starved of much.

And starving creatures were dangerous things.

He knew this well.

A flare of unwanted empathy shivered up him, and he offered what he could: words.

"You're a beautiful woman, Mrs. Higginbothom," he said gently. Genuinely. "You deserve what you're looking for, but with someone who loves you."

Not her husband.

She stopped, the aggression leaking out of her, face crumbling around its well kept edges. She took a sharp breath in, watching him, the grief welling up to her eyes.

"Excuse me," she whispered, and turned and walked away too quickly, ankles wobbling in her heeled shoes.

He didn't see her again that night, but knew from her husband's thoughts, and those of Claire Aldine's, that she, and one Dr. Aldine, would not be married, except in name only, for long.

When Carlisle came home, some two months later, thoughts full of hospital gossip, Edward was not surprised.

Telling Carlisle as much, his father asked, "Did you know?"

"Oh yes," he said. "I think our party shook loose a few relationships."

Carlisle sighed. "Love knows many forms."

Indeed. Edward couldn't agree more.

- O -

Isle Esme

"That's the only picture of them we have together," Bella said, fingering the print. "My mom's dad, and her mom. Renee told me Grandma burned most of them after he ran off with another woman—pregnant, I think."

"Your grandmother," Edward murmured, staring at the face. Marie's. Knowing the features already from his perfect memory. A wedding photograph, it seemed, from more austere times. Her pillbox hat had a flutter of netting. Nothing more, to show the occasion. She was looking at her husband with utter adoration.

"Yeah," Bella said, questioning his gaze with her own quizzical expression.

He thought, before he responded. "She looks . . . remarkable."

"I think the word mom used was formidable," Bella chuckled.

"I wonder why she kept this one?" He looked again at the wide curve of Marie's smile. So like Bella's.

"Oh," Bella said, tone shifting, eyes rolling, "this was mom's favourite teaching tool for why marriage should not be attempted young. Her wedding picture was the next one. I'm sure Grandma used it for the same purpose."

It was Edward's turn to smile widely, settling a luscious kiss on Bella. "I have every confidence our marriage will surpass their expectations."

"Good," Bella said, putting the photo book down on the coffee table, using her hands to grip his shirt collar to pull him closer. His coolness was a relief against the Island's close air. "Let your wife show you how."

And, because it tickled his fancy, and he knew it make her laugh, whispered, "tart."

Her laughter was throaty and good humoured.

"And what does that make you?" she countered. "A John?"

"Oh no," he whispered, running kisses down her neck, stopping most of her purposeful thought. "The Vicar."

She snorted.

"And I'm all ready to be seduced," he grinned.

"No problem," she said, and did exactly that.

~ The End ~