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Esme recognizes him immediately.
“Charlie.”
His name slips out in her surprise. Her excitement? This moment is unexpected, but she’s been waiting years for this.
The man in front of her stops in his tracks, the confusion plain on his face, not that it diminishes his features at all. Oh, but he’s so handsome. His brow dips slightly, eyes tracing her face in search of familiarity.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Do we know each other?”
“Ah, no, not really. But, small town,” she replies, waving off her mistake. She tries to make her voice as gentle as possible without giving anything away. She doesn’t want to say it, but she has to. “I’m Esme Cullen.”
It’s unspoken, but it’s enough. I’m his wife.
The blow may as well have been physical by the way his chest caves. His face remains steady, the slight polite smile even managing to grow, but she can see it in his eyes. Recognition, shock, and pain. So much pain.
“Oh, yes. Right. Of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, outwardly calm for the emotion she knows is there, reaching his hand out. If she were still human, she may have missed the strain in his voice as he says her name, his name, “Mrs. Cullen.”
She takes his hand to shake, wishing she could pull him in closer for comfort, instead. But he wouldn’t want it from her.
“The pleasure is mine, Chief Swan.”
She thinks briefly about telling him that her husband speaks very highly of him, in part because it’s polite. But mostly because it’s true. But would that help? Or would it hurt him more, to hear that Carlisle speaks of him at all. She doesn’t want to say too much, to cause more damage.
He nods as their hands separate, and she looks away from the way his fist clenches once it returns to his side. She can hear his pulse racing, so she stops her own breathing. Just in case. She’s not around humans enough, though she’d never dare hurt him. Never Charlie.
She would never forgive herself, never mind what it would do to Carlisle.
“Are you all right? There was a break-in, if I understand correctly. We have medical… personnel outside. Unless you’d rather, of course.” He covers up his pause well, only the clearing of his throat giving him away, and she side-steps the almost question. No reason to make him speak of Carlisle directly, to send her off to him.
“No, I’m quite fine, thank you. I wasn’t here when it happened, I’m just here as a friend of Marienne. I was coming to visit her shop when I saw the broken windows.” She gestures over to the owner of the flower shop, sitting behind the counter on the phone. Marienne sees them then, throwing up a finger as she says goodbye to who she’s speaking with.
Charlie is giving the owner a sympathetic wince when Esme looks back to him. They would know each other, of course, they likely grew up here together. She should have expected this. In such a sleepy town, the Chief of Police was sure to personally respond to unexpected violence in the town square. This is his home, his people.
Was it a mistake to move them all back here?
“We’d like to collect a statement from you, would that be all right? My deputy will have just a couple of questions.” He takes a step toward the counter, seeming eager to go yet unable to tear his eyes from hers. “I’m going to check in with Marienne.”
She nods, smiling at the young man that steps up to them at his beckoning. Charlie’s fist comes to rub at his own chest, and she wonders if he’s even aware he’s doing it.
“Of course. Thank you,” she says to him, much too casual for everything she’s grateful to him for. He nods with another smile, warm despite it all, and she watches just long enough to see him clasp a gentle hand on the shop owner’s shoulder. His thumb strokes her jacket, nothing but kindness and comfort radiating from him, even as tension continues to pull at his own frame.
A selfless, protective, beloved soul in a beautiful man. Your description was spot-on, love.
Esme turns away just before his gaze sweeps back to her. She keeps her eyes trained on the other officer, purposely keeping still to let Charlie observe her in peace. She’s been curious, too.
But she’s had time to process, and she’ll have more time, still.
Oh, Carlisle. How could you possibly think he’d let you go?