she had not had a single thought about her career as a journalist since her prince charming had awakened her from her sleep. She felt a traitor to her feminist side and for a long moment she missed her job and Southern Style Magazine. Eve pushed the thoughts from her head. I’ll think about that tomorrow, she shrugged. Eve started to laugh out loud when she realized she was emulating a very famous southern belle. The Gregoire mansion could never be her Tara. She was not a southern belle, nor would she ever be. It went against her northern nature and for that, she was actually grateful.
Eve wiped away her tears, smiled and kissed Philip’s head. “Your mommy is a very silly mommy,” she whispered.
Eve’s best friend Cora Bouvier had given birth to a beautiful baby girl she named Delia, short for Delia Jacqueline Bouvier. The fact that Beau was the father and about to marry Eve was, in true southern tradition, not discussed. Most days Cora and Delia would come to the estate, Cora to help with the decorating and Delia to play with Philip. The children were young, but both had a keen and urgent awareness of one another that Eve could not help but feel seemed well beyond their age. When Eve would sit in the tree swing on the back lawn while Delia and Philip explored the warm sun to play with an array of toys scattered around them on soft blankets, she would find herself gazing at Delia’s head of dark black curls and look into her eyes, which were the exact same sky blue as Beau’s. She would shake the thoughts of how Delia looked more like Beau than Philip. She wanted to feel betrayed, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t. Cora was her best friend in ways Eve could never explain and that she and Beau sought refuge in each other’s arms the night her doctor told them Eve would probably never wake from her coma was somehow forgivable. It was, according to both, only one night. And what if she had died? What then of her soul mate, her son and her best friend? Mostly, Beau and Cora having loved each other was a good feeling. Mostly.
Now and again though, something about this awkward gothic romance novel—absurd and melodramatic—reality involving her husband-to-be and father to her best friend’s child upset her stomach and made her head spin. Because she loved them both, Eve asked them to search their hearts, to make sure their love and their life together wasn’t what was supposed to be. They’d had months to get to know each other and she’d had only one dance. Eve felt she had a mysterious déjà vu with Beau, while Beau and Cora had actual time on their side. Eve wanted to say she would step aside. She wanted to say she understood their bizarre circumstances were unprecedented and who was she to stand in the way of their love. But she couldn’t force the words past her lips. Both Beau and Cora had insisted that their coming together was because they both loved her so much. When faced with the idea they were losing her, they had comforted each other once and from that union, Delia was conceived and born.
Eve saw the sincerity in their eyes and believed their words, which gave her some peace. Yet, it was hard to see them when they looked at each other or hugged hello or good-bye, laughed or shared their little girl as she played with her half brother … how could she not wonder about what feelings still lingered in Beau or in Cora? Even more unnerving was the feeling Eve experienced when she looked into Delia’s eyes; some unexplainable connection that made her want to cry. Hormones, Eve thought, fucking hormones. Then she would push the fears away, give Delia a hug and set her down to play on the blanket, happy to watch as she crawled to grab Philip’s hair and make him giggle with delight. Hormones she’d remind herself again and again, but months had passed and that excuse was wearing thin.
Mornings would come, nights would go and her world was by all who looked in, perfect—and it was, except for those raw snippets of demon-filled nightmares that as of recently had found their way into bizarre daydreams carrying with them shadowy details that repeated in the terrifying nightmares she’d fought so hard to hold at bay. For months she had been winning the battle on her own, refusing to take the narcoleptic medication that would have prevented her from breast feeding Philip. Her therapist, Dr. Honoré, suggested she face her dreams head on. She’d offered hypnotherapy, but Beau insisted Eve not even consider such an idea.
“No drugs and no hypnosis,” he all but pleaded.
Dr. Honoré smiled pleasantly and told her the offer stood if Eve ever wanted to reconsider. In some hidden recess of her mind Eve knew she needed to face the demons in her dreams especially if they meant she might be going insane. That possibility frightened her; a need no less powerful than the need of an alcoholic to taste that next drink was her hunger to understand. Dr. Honoré said the day would come and when it did, understanding it could free her. Her fear was that understanding too much might push her over the edge from which she might not easily be able return. It turned out today was that day.
Eve stood impatiently in the main kitchen, the smell of fresh paint and wood oil polish filtering in from the main house. The combination suddenly made her feel dizzy. The room shifted, moving around her like the horizon on a ship at sea. She laid her hand on the cool granite counter and reached for her glass of water, dabbing a bit on her neck as she watched the installation of their cumbersomely large, brand new Traulsen freezer and fridge, a monstrous, yet beautiful pair of monolithic, stainless steel boxes, the fridge with glass doors and industrial shelves. The freezer was simply a wall of stainless steel. The workmen finally finished hooking up the ventilation system and filter, connected the electrical plugs, and fired up the motor of the mechanical beast. The motors added a low hum to the room making their presence known to all who entered.
Job done, the three burly men turned to face her. Each man was tall, well-built and fit, each smelling of sweet spice and tart musk, each sweating rivulets through the dirt that stained their faces and very muscular arms. Their similar skin coloring and the shape of their eyes and noses made Eve guess they were brothers or cousins. First and second cousins had been marrying each other for generations in Louisiana so the possibility of a little inbreeding played itself out in their features. Skeeter, the youngest of the three men, couldn’t take his eyes off Eve, especially her full, ripe breasts. He’d had an erection bulging beneath his jeans since she walked into the room. Eve politely ignored it and his lascivious stares. She gave them water, signed the paperwork, tipped them generously and started to say good-by as they stepped out onto the back sun porch. The other brother walked away, but Skeeter turned.
“Thank you, gentleman. You have a great day and …” Eve started.
Skeeter interrupted her, “Uhm … Ma’am,” he started to say.
It was that Southern term, Ma’am, that made her feel older than she was.
“… well, I just want you to know, if you ever need some help with anything at all, you can call me direct. It would be a real pleasure to help someone as lovely as yourself … well … do anything.”
“Well, thank you,” Eve said, pretending she didn’t remember his name. “You just call me… I’m Skeeter and I’ll come right over and … fix you up. You know?”
He smiled with a horny eagerness that almost made her burst out laughing. Eve couldn’t help but notice how young he was … sixteen or seventeen at best. And the already extremely large bulge rising in his pants said everything his words and eyes did not.
“I do understand, Skeeter. I’ll remember your kind offer if I ever need anything fixed,” she said, smiled graciously and closed the back door, making sure she turned the lock hard enough to be heard.
Finally they were gone. Still woozy, Eve walked back inside and crossing the kitchen, found herself staring curiously into the fridge’s empty shelves. Have to keep that organized, bummer, she thought. That’s when she noticed her reflection in its thick green glass doors staring back at her. She look tired, more tired than she remembered ever looking before. Eve pushed loose strands of hair back from her face and tucked them into her rope of honey hair. She touched the dark rings that hung like little grey ghosts beneath her eyes and sighed.
“Cora, how can you always look so damn perfect,” she mumbled to herself.
Just as she was about to walk away, her image shifted, wavering like heat rising from a street