A/N: Good morning! Thanks for joining me on a new adventure with Bakerella, the Spawn, and of course, Edward.

We'll talk more at the end about a bit of an update schedule, some anecdotes, questions, answers, etc. But right now, let's get started.

All negligible rights are reserved. Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. Pardon any and all mistakes, etc., etc. :)

Pre-Prologue – Guy Talk

FAO Schwarz – New York City, New York

December 2002

"Tony, no. Get over here," I hiss. "Don't you see the line? We've got to wait on that first."

The sternness in my tone makes my ten-year-old son stop in his tracks. Nevertheless, the foot he has poised in mid-air, all ready to slam down on the huge, white piano keys on the floor, remains at the ready. When he swivels around, impressively with that foot still in the air, his forehead is furrowed, green eyes narrowed in defiance.

"Come on, Dad! I've been waiting for this all day!" he gripes. "Besides, you said we had to head for the airport in a half hour, and look at that line! We'll never make it to the front on time!"

He waves an impatient hand toward the admittedly long-ass line of parents and children of varying ages, all waiting for their turn at the famed piano. The cacophony emanating from the line is made up of voices raised in conversation, in laughter, in screams, and in sobs – from parents and kids alike. The various elements of winterwear needed here on the East Coast in December seem to add to the agitation. They burst from everywhere like fireworks; they're worn or carried on arms or stuffed into shopping bags and strollers or just discarded on the floor. The entire atmosphere is in total contrast to the merriness usually associated with the season, as well as with the song on the loudspeakers, proclaiming that 'the choir of children sing their song.'

I wouldn't call this scene akin to a choir of children – not by a long shot.

While I take in this less-than-festive sight, the glares shot our way, from both children and parents respectively, grow all the more sinister, and they're all accompanied by famed New York City scowls, which clearly spell out, 'Don't you even fucking dare, asshole.'

Because my son's foot is still poised in mid-air.

I rake a hand through my hair and nervously shuffle Tony's coat from one arm to the other, smiling in the general direction of the crowd. My gesture isn't returned. This might get ugly.

"Tony, you see those kids who are already jumping on the piano?"

My son doesn't even turn around to acknowledge the sight of the two boys smacking out disjointed tunes with their sneakers, and the lone little girl tapping away much more gracefully with her dress shoes.

Instead, his frown grows deeper. Shit.

"Well, all those kids and their parents waited on line for their turn."

Tony appears unimpressed.

A vague thought flashes through my head along the lines that really, we've both been duped here. See, in that Tom Hanks movie, this toy store didn't appear anywhere near as crowded as we've found it. What's more, there sure as hell was no line of murderous parents and their screaming offspring.

When reasoning doesn't work to redirect Tony, I wave him over decisively. "All right, come on. Rules are rules."

My tone brooks no room for argument because you've got to teach them right from wrong from the very beginning. You've got to give them the principles, and hope that when it's time, they know how to apply them on their own.

As I head toward the back of the massive line, all the while knowing Tony is likely right, and we'll never make it to the front before it's time to leave, I take in a silent breath of relief when I hear his sigh of surrender. Still, I feel like shit.

"Aw, man," he mutters, "I'll never get a turn. This trip to New York sucked."

Yep. Just like shit.

"Hey, little man."

Someone calls this out in an almost whisper; the voice only carries in the chaos because it's pretty deep. In the next fraction of a second, I perform an about-face, hands already fisted at my sides because when some stranger in a strange city calls to your kid in a low voice, your hackles instinctively rise.

"Why don't you go over there with my daughter? I'm sure she won't mind sharing her spot with you."

In my son's defense, he does set aside almost a handful of seconds to seek my input before running head-on toward the little girl to which the guy gestures, the one at the other end of the floor piano. Tony's body vibrates with hope.

"Can I, Dad?" he rushes out. "Please? Please?"

"Yeah, sure. But be careful. And don't jump on her toes!" I add although he's already sprinted off.

I watch him approach the tiny girl – an angelic little thing with blond pigtails, a red velvet dress, and black patent shoes. She's tapping her feet and giggling, so involved in her activity she doesn't note Tony's approach.

"Hey, is it okay if I share your piano space? Your dad said it was," he adds pointedly, in case she's got any plans to say 'no.'

When the little girl's head shoots up, she's got the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen. The eyes seek out her dad, seeking permission in much the same way in which Tony hastily sought mine. When your kid looks at you like that, it fills you with both a sense of pride mingled with a reminder of the herculean responsibility on your shoulders. With Tony already ten-years-old, I find myself momentarily wondering how long that deference to my decisions will last.

The guy, who stands a few feet away and separated from the rest of the horde, nods and offers his daughter a reassuring smile.

"Share," I watch him mouth.

When the little girl smiles, her entire face lights up.

"Sure it's okay," she answers my son. "Come on!"

For a second, I'm startled. I'm not even sure why except...there was something about her smile…

"You two would've waited on that line for at least an hour; trust me. I just did."

The guy walks over to me, and I look over. He's tall; taller than me by a couple of inches, which isn't a usual encounter. He's got massive arms crossed over his chest, but not in one of those threatening or flaunting ways. He's using the space between to cradle a minuscule, red velvet coat. He's got the same color hair and eyes as his daughter, and when he offers me a friendly grin, I return it with a grateful one of my own.

"Thanks a lot, man. You just made my son's day."

He shrugs. "Don't worry about it. I know how it is. My wife tells me I should try to perform a good deed daily. Now, I can honestly tell her I've performed today's. Besides which, it would've broken her heart to see your son's sad, little face, and if she would've found out I did nothing to help, she would've kicked my ass."

I chuckle at that mental image because it would take some kind of woman to kick this guy's ass.

"Well, my ex-wife would've made us turn tail the second we walked in here had she seen that line, so I'd say yours has the better priorities."

"Ooh," he says, He jerks back his head and sucks in a sharp breath. "Guess that's why she's the ex-wife."

We share a chuckle at that one. Then, we return to keeping an eye on our respective kids. I'm relieved to see they're playing well together. The little girl delicately taps her pristine black shoes on the black keys, then she looks at Tony, and he slams his dirty, white Converse on the respective white key. Then, they both break into fits of laughter and repeat the sequence. Good. After this guy here did us such a favor, it would've sucked for our kids to hate one another. Plus, he's a pretty big guy; it could've gotten messy.

Though Tony's a good kid, so I can't say I'm surprised. His semi-tantrum a few minutes ago was out of character for him, but I understand it. He's ten, and it's his first trip to New York with me, and he's had a few, long days which have ended in a measure of disappointment for a kid his age.

"So you guys are from out of town?" the guys asks.

I guess the look I give him in reply expresses my surprise until he clarifies.

"I overheard your son say how this trip to New York sucked."

Again, I chuckle. "Oh yeah, that's right. Excuse his language; he doesn't usually speak that way, at least not in front of me, but…he's right; this trip did suck."

The guy laughs. "Yeah. New York during the holidays can get pretty hectic, especially with all the security in place since last year."

"Yeah, it's crazy times in this world." We're both quiet for a moment. "But what made it a disappointment for my son was the fact that this was mainly a business trip for me. We were only here for four days, and I was stuck in contract meetings for most of them, which cut into our tourist time."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah. My business partner came down with me, and he was a great help with my son, but the guy's not much for exploring. He mostly kept my son by the pool, and we already have a pool at home, so Tony wasn't impressed." I shrug my shoulders and turn up my palms in one of those 'What are going to do?' gestures. "He'll be fine, though. He's getting older now. I'll bring him back next time, and we'll do some more sightseeing."

The guy nods slowly. "That's good, but I've got to agree with your son about this trip; it did suck for him."

Again, we both chuckle.

"So what do you do? You're a lawyer?"

"No, no." A somewhat wistful smile lifts up the corners of my mouth. "Though, that was the plan once, a long time ago. But life gets real."

"My wife says something similar," he snorts.

"Yeah." Again, I shrug. "It's all good. I'm in importing and exporting. My partner and I have a small start-up." I grin rather proudly now. "The business has lots of intricacies, and the ins and outs involved keep me running from one place to another and keep my mind busy."

"A busy mind and body are always good. I'm in marketing myself, so I know how important it is to keep that noggin' focused." He taps his temple in illustration.

"Marketing? Look at that; small world," I say, noting how our careers are somewhat related.

"Where do you guys live?"

"In Southern California."

"SoCal." He nods appreciatively. "Good weather almost every day up there, I hear."

"You hear right," I grin. "But you know, around this time of year, you wouldn't mind some snow just to add to the theme."

"Yeah; my wife says the same thing. She loves snow around the holidays. It's one of the reasons she says she'll never leave the East Coast – well that, and she hates airplanes." He grins, but he suddenly looks like he regrets sharing that bit, so I leave it alone. "My dad, on the other hand," he continues, "hates California because of Hollywood."

"Because of Hollywood?" I echo with a snort.

"Yeah. He says the constantly warm weather up there contributes to the spoiled attitudes of those in Tinsel Town. 'Son, you know why our family's genes are so strong?'" The guy drops his already deep voice even lower. "'Because we were bred in cold weather! You need cold weather to keep those genes strong! Don't ever leave the northeast, son, because that's when you'll turn into one of those spoiled Mama's boys!'"

We both howl with laughter. It takes us a couple of minutes to tamp down on our amusement.

"Yeah, my dad's a trip, and his advice can be a bit questionable," he says.

"Believe me, it can't be any worse than my dad's advice. The things he used to advise me…man, they were doozies. And the worst part is I used to follow that advice too." Pursing my lips, I shake my head, crossing my arms against my chest as well.

And then, she's there.

In my head.

But I shake her off. I'm in the middle of a crowded-as-hell toy store in New York City in the middle of the holiday season, keeping an eye on my son to make sure he doesn't get himself kidnapped or in trouble while holding a conversation with a guy who's doing the same. I can't think of her now. It's an indulgence I'll leave for later. Maybe for the flight home.

"Yeah, well, what are you going to do?" the guy says. "They give us shitty advice sometimes, thinking they know better, and we take it because we believe they know better. Then when we fuck up – pardon my language – we blame them and never follow their advice again. Then we fuck up because we don't follow advice. And then, we have our own kids, and we repeat the shitty cycle all over again.

I'm laughing throughout his entire philosophy. "Yeah, that's exactly how it happens, isn't it? It's a shame though when you're old enough to make a mistake that really costs you. And really, who can you blame but yourself at that point?"

The thought sobers me for a bit. I gesture toward Tony with my jaw, where he and the little girl are now jumping up and down simultaneously on every single key in their vicinity and giggling away, having a grand old time.

"That's why I try to raise my son with principles rather than too much advice. Advice is subjective, while principles are constant. As long as he's got good principles, I hope someday they'll guide him toward good decision-making; at least, toward decisions he can live with without regret."

The guy stares at me for a few seconds. Behind him, and in my periphery, I see a petite woman approaching with determined steps.

"Excuse me, mind if I like, ask you both a question?"

A red-head in about her mid-twenties stands before us. She's holding a red-headed toddler by the hand, while the kid screams at the top of his lungs and tries to yank himself out of his mother's grip. Nevertheless, the woman grins widely at us, biting her bottom lip in a way that makes it obvious what her line of questioning will be.

"I realize this is like, forward of me? But like…are either of you single? Or even better, are you both single?" she adds. "Cuz my friends and I, we're like, on line over there for the piano thing? And we all agreed you two have to be like, the finest guys we've ever seen." She giggles – in much the same manner in which my son and the guy's little girl just giggled.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "No, we're not single."

"Oh." Her face falls. Nevertheless, she turns her gaze to the guy, her expression hopeful for a different reply from him – never mind the fact that the guy's wedding band is on clear display with the way he's got his arms folded.

The guy shakes his head, wiggling his wedding ring high. "You heard my friend. We're taken."

Her shoulders droop in defeat. "Oh, well. Can't blame a girl for trying. Man, your wives are lucky."

She bites her lip again and expels a really salacious sound under her breath. Her eyes openly rake us from head to toe, her gaze shifting from my feet to the guy's feet, and back to mine.

"Really damn lucky." With a lascivious grin, she heads back to the line, dragging the screaming toddler behind her.

The guy's gaze meets mine, both of us wide-eyed, though I get the feeling he gets this as often as I do. My respect for this stranger grows at how swiftly he opted out of that whole situation. Cheating doesn't sit well with me ever since I…

No. No, I'm not going there. Not now. Not in the middle of this busy toy store during the holidays.

"Where were we before our feet were measured so thoroughly?" the guy says, mirth dancing in his eyes. "Oh yeah. 'Advice is subjective, while principles are constant.'" He nods slowly after echoing my words. "I like that. It's a good philosophy. Mind if I borrow it?"

"Not at all. Help yourself."

He rubs his jaw with his palm, and his gaze shifts to his daughter again. When he sees she's still laughing away with my son, he looks back at me.

"See, that little angel there wasn't easy to come by. My wife…she had some problems carrying her."

"Sorry to hear that."

He waves off my sympathy. "It all turned out fine, as you can see." Once again, his gaze sweeps to his daughter, and the smile he sends her way is infused with pure, fatherly adoration. "My wife though…between those issues and a previous issue she once had, well, occasionally, she has a hard time allowing our daughter room to grow into her own, little person."

"She's a real Mama Bear, huh?"

He grins wryly. "Oh, yeah. I get her, though." He's quiet for a few seconds. "But take right now, for instance. The only reason she's not here is that it's my sister's thirtieth birthday, and she woke up crying." He snorts. "So, my wife took her out for a day of shopping and brunch at Saks to cheer her up. Now, Munchkin over here," he jerks his jaw toward his daughter again, "she's been wanting to come to The Big Piano ever since we rented Big a couple of weeks ago."

"That's how my son found out about it too. And as soon as we planned this trip to New York, he begged me to bring him."

We laugh at the coincidence.

"So I offered to bring Munchkin here while my wife has some fun with my sister over there – a girls day out, and a Daddy/Daughter date, if you will."

"That was really good of you. Some dads would've just stayed home with their kid and sworn they were Father of the Year."

"Yeah, well. Doesn't look like you're one of those 'some dads' either," he says, giving me a sidelong look. "Point is, I think I'll share your philosophy regarding principles versus advice with my wife – but I'll take the credit for it if you don't mind."

"Go ahead," I chuckle. "I don't mind at all."

"Thanks," he grins. "I doubt I'll fool her, though; she's too smart for that. She'll probably figure out right away I didn't come up with it myself."

"Well, either way, I hope it works for you; though, if you don't mind me saying, it sounds like your wife is already a great mom."

His reply comes without a moment's hesitation. "Oh, she is. She's a terrific mom and an amazing wife."

His eyes are on his daughter again, but I get the feeling he's not actually seeing her; he's seeing that amazing wife of his. A sliver of envy courses through me, but it's quickly extinguished. I'm a firm believer that you get what you deserve. The guy obviously worships his wife; he deserves her.

"You sound like you really lucked out, man."

"I'm not even going to front. I totally did. I mean, of course, there's always ups and downs in a marriage, right? But when the ups constantly outweigh the downs? That's when you know you've got it good. That woman and I are going to grow old and gray together – well, at least I am. She hasn't even hit thirty, and she's already worried about grays," he laughs. "We're going to raise this Munchkin here, then spoil the hell out of the Munchkin's kids, etc. etc."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Hey, at the risk of sounding like a bit of a nosy bastard, mind if I ask you something somewhat personal?"

"Go ahead," I grin. "I'll let you know if you're a nosy bastard."

"You said you're divorced, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then, why didn't you go for that before? She was kind of cute." He jerks his head toward the line, where the red-head has barely even inched forward. For a moment, I feel kind of sorry for her predicament – until she winks and blows me a kiss. Then, I swiftly look away.

The guy chuckles heartily.

"To answer your question honestly, I'll have to run the risk of getting somewhat personal with you."

He snorts and spreads his legs shoulder-width apart, firmly planting his feet in apparent anticipation. "Go ahead and take that risk," he says, grinning. "I gotta hear this."

"You know everything you just said about your wife – how you said she reminds you to perform a good deed daily, how you said her heart would've broken had she seen my son's sad face, how she loves snow, how she enjoys spending time with family, how smart she is, what a great a mother she is, yet she's also an amazing wife?"

He nods languidly, and I can tell he gets it.

"That's what I'm looking for, and somehow, I don't think that red-head was it. Besides, I've got a son to raise; I don't have time to play games."

He nods up and down slowly, scrutinizing me. Then, he straightens. "I respect that, man, and I hope you find what you're looking for."

And there she is again.

In my head, running through my memories.

She would've been all those things I just described. She was already super smart, even in high school; so quick it intimidated me, fed my teenaged insecurities, and that right there was my first mistake.

She loved snow; I remember her telling me once, how she wanted to visit New York during Christmas someday so that she could make snow angels in Rockefeller Center. She was caring, never spoke meanly to anyone. She was protective. She cried, every single time, in the middle of Stand By Me, when the overweight boy got bullied. Her small hands would fist, and she swore she'd kick those bullies asses if she ever met them. She would've been the best mother…and the most passionate, generous, and faithful wife.

I can't help wondering where she is. Does she still live in Paris or did she return to the U.S.? Did she get married? Did she have children?

Anthony and the Munchkin run over to us; sweaty, grinning and overexcited. It seems they've grown bored with The Big Piano – the way kids tend to do. It's a good thing, though. I need the distraction. There's no point in thinking about her – not here; not now.

The little girl's perfectly smooth velvet dress doesn't look quite so perfect anymore. Anthony's red button-down shirt is wrinkled and has come untucked from his jeans. He'll be knocked out on the airplane going home.

He pulls on my shirt sleeves to make sure he has my complete attention – and he does have it.

"Dad, that was great! Did you see me? Did you see me play all those songs with the girl, Dad?"

"I saw you, buddy. You looked like you were having a blast." Smiling, I tussle his damp, reddish-blond hair.

"I totally was! And she's really fun too! For a little girl."

"Tony," I warn, "remember to show respect for girls of all ages, please. And did you thank her for letting you share her piano space?"

Meanwhile, Munchkin leans against her dad, her cheeks flushed, a grin on her angelic face, and her hand tucked within her father's.

"No," Anthony smirks. Nevertheless, he grins widely when he turns back to the little girl. "Thanks for sharing with me!"

"You're welcome," she giggles. "Mommy says it's good to share."

"Yes, thanks for letting him play with you." I smile down at Munchkin. She really is a little beauty, no older than six or seven years old, I'd say. Her resemblance to her father is actually striking; though, on her, their shared features are young, feminine, and soft.

For a fraction of a second, I wonder what it would've been like to have a daughter – not that my son isn't my treasure in every way. But I wonder what it would've been like to have a Daddy's Girl. In my imagination, however, she would've been dark-haired and dark-eyed, unlike this blond and blue-eyed angel.

"I had fun playing with him! He's so cool!" Munchkin exclaims, angling her head upward sharply to look at her dad, and breaking me out of my musings.

Her dad and I both chuckle.

"Well, I'm glad he behaved himself," I say. "Again, you were very kind."

"Yeah, she gets the kindness from her mom. Gets the good looks from me, though. Right, Munchkin?" He winks down at his daughter, making it clear he's teasing her.

She rolls her eyes. "Daddy, you always say I'm beautiful like Mommy."

"The women in my life are too smart for me," he says, shaking his head.

Grinning, I look at my watch, and noting the time, a fissure of alarm runs through me.

"Alright, Tony, get your coat on. We've got to meet Uncle Jas at the airport before he gets on that flight without us."

"Yeah, we better get going too, Munchkin," the guy says. "Your mom and your aunt are probably-"

At that moment, he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. "Yep. They're on their way to meet us. Let's hustle, kiddo."

While our kids don their winter wear, the guy asks me about our flight and airport information, and he suggests a shortcut to the airport that'll save us both time and cab fare. He also suggests we leave through the rear door because the front of the store is a literal tourist trap, packed with camera-toting, picture-snapping hordes who'll surround us.

"Thanks a lot, man. I didn't even know there was another exit. You've been a great help today." I reach out to shake his hand. "You've performed more than one good deed, and your wife'll be extremely proud."

He laughs heartily as he meets my hand. "From your mouth to God's ears."

His grip is tight as fuck, but not in that asshole manner some big guys sometimes have.

"By the way, I'm Ed."

"Good to meet you, Ed. I'm Sam. And this is-"

I suppose his phone vibrates again. This time, when he looks down at it, his eyes widen.

"Crap. Munchkin, we'd better go. Mom's outside, and she says the zombie horde of holiday shoppers is about to descend on her."

"Uh-oh, that can't be good. Glad we're going out the back way," I say jokingly, noting how on top of everything else, his wife appears to have a fun sense of humor. Lucky guy, indeed.

As I pull Tony toward the back exit, we wave at Sam and his daughter. "Guys, it was great meeting you. Thanks for everything."

"Great meeting you both as well," Sam says, waving back. "Have a safe flight home, and I hope everything works out well for you guys."

OOOOOOOOOO

Prologue – Blame the Red Bottoms

Newport Beach, California

Present Day

With no Nutella Scones around, I blame the damn Red Bottoms for my current predicament.

Don't get me wrong; I love 'em. I really do. I own seven pairs. The last three pairs are my favorite. After all, they were given to me by my husband, Edward, for no reason or occasion other than how much he loves me.

Well, to be more specific, I should say he didn't give them to me for a calendar-specific reason or occasion. In our almost three years of marriage, Edward and I have eschewed the generally-accepted convention of gifting one another on Christmas, on Valentine's Day, for our Anniversary, etc. Instead, we spoil the shit out of one another whenever the mood hits us – which is pretty often.

So yes, of course, there's a reason for the shoes. In Edward's case, every time I wear Red Bottoms, he splits his pants in the groin area. He attributes this to some nonsense regarding the way the slim, narrow six-inch heels lift and elongate the natural curve in my calves, which organically lead his eyes to my thighs and then inherently, the eyes stray upward to my ass – or something along those lines. The explanation is what I've managed to piece together from convoluted statements he's made because my usually articulate and well-spoken husband isn't the most enlightened creature once I've got those Red Bottoms on.

Therefore, it's safe to say that as soon as he comes home with a pair, I know he's going to have my legs up in the air while I wear those Red Bottoms and no other bottoms. Which is a fair deal, if you ask me. Keep the Red Bottoms coming, and I'll keep you coming. Win/win for all involved; even though we both know I'll happily do it without Red Bottoms thrown into the bargain.

In fact, I usually do it for no other reason, calendar-specific or Red-Bottomed, beyond how much I love him and how good he is to me in every way.

Anyway, I've veered off track here. Back to the reason I'm damning the RBs to the pits of hell.

So, I found them in my closet this morning, after Edward left for an office meeting. The box was wrapped in a big, red bow, and it had a note attached.

Dear Bella,

It's been a hectic few months, love; I know. But we're almost there, and as with everything you ever do, you've been amazing. Here's a little something to add an extra smile to your morning (and then, if you keep them on, I'll add an extra scream for you tonight).

Love you, always.

Your husband,

Edward.

Well, the note wasn't one-hundred percent accurate. I've messed up quite a bit lately, just recently with Edward, and all over the past, few months with Ness…and with Anthony.

But, my husband is the best husband ever, and so are my kids. I didn't deserve this particular set of RBs, but Edward always forgives me, whether I deserve it or not.

And therein was my first mistake: You don't burn Nutella Scones, and you sure as hell don't wear RBs you don't deserve.

Anyway, back to the RBs. Since I had a few errands to run around L.A., and since Edward making me scream at night sounded like a good plan, one would've thought his timing perfect.

The RBs are your classic pump style, in nude patent leather – quite gorgeous and fitting for the glamour of Tinsel Town.

Man, Edward and I would've had a ball with these tonight. I'll admit, even as I teeter-totter down the hospital's slippery-tiled maternity ward as if I've invented my own Olympic Sprinting Fashion event, and even though I know I have no one but myself to blame, there's a song of requiem playing in the background for all the unfortunately-doomed-to-remain-unfulfilled potential the night held.

Oh, I'm not in this maternity ward for myself; though, in this day and age, I could still pop out a baby or two. But, Shitty Cervix Swan couldn't be counted on to safely hold a baby for nine full months when I was seventeen…or even twenty-three. Can you imagine the havoc it would wreck with me at forty-five?

Nonetheless, I am eternally grateful to Shitty Cervix for holding in my Vanessa for the eight, anxiety-riddled months it managed; otherwise, I wouldn't be here today, about to be…to be…

Oh, just spit it out, Bella!

"FUCK!"

No. Obviously, I'm not about to be a 'fuck;' though some – namely Tanya – might disagree. But unfortunately, that lovely word is the less than stellar exclamation that erupts from me as the right heel on my expensive-as-hell RBs finally gives, and my ankle twists, while I go tumbling face-first toward the shiny, white-tiled, hospital floor…

How the hell did it all come to this?

A/N: Thoughts?

*About five years ago, my husband and I found out that we'd met, repeatedly, when we were about five years old. Apparently, my babysitter was good friends with his parents, and they came over a few times while I was being babysat. I only have the vaguest memories of meeting him at this age: just foggy images really, of running around with him in the backyard. We discovered it when I happened to mention my sitter's name to my MIL, and one thing led to another. So…yeah.

Anyway, thank you for coming along on this new ride! Bella and Edward have a new adventure waiting for them, and we'll have ten or so chapters in which to see how they handle it.

The posting schedule was supposed to be 3x/week: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

HOWEVER, since I began writing the story, I had a couple of unexpected trips come up, one for pleasure and one for business. The pleasure one starts tomorrow! The fam and I will be on a boat, and we tend to unplug for these fam vacations.

That being said, I'd still like to keep the postings to 3x/week.

So THIS WEEK, I'll post TODAY, TOMORROW, and likely FRIDAY, when we reach land and I'll plug back in for a bit.

NEXT WEEK: I'll likely post WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, and FRIDAY!

So, you can visit me on Facebook for story discussions and for visuals of Edward, Bella, Anthony, Nessie, AND Sam. Or you can hit me up on Twitter to talk. ;)

Hope to hear from all of you! Thanks!

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