Читать книгу The Tempting: Seducing the Nephilim - D. M. Pratt - Страница 8
ОглавлениеEvery day the Gregoire mansion waited for Eve to arrive. The painters, wood workers, masons, and fabric hangers, who Eve’s friend, Cora had insisted on her hiring were coming closer to finishing the massive list of requested changes in the main house. Together they had transformed the mansion room by room. They had re-plastered the faded blue and painted the walls a warm, soft cream done in a faux texture with a hint of mustard gold. The color was finished with the slightest kiss of lavender all blended under a Venetian sheen that suggested the first hint of summer dusk.
Cora had been a Godsend. Decorating was in her blood and the air she breathed. She had them strip the years of paint off the plaster crown moldings and patch and refinish them in a rich, bold white the color of ivory clouds. The moldings framed the silk moray fabric that stretched along the entry stair walls and into the master dining room. The wainscoting that lined the entry, lower halls and climbed the curved stairway, Eve matched to her molding, but in a shade warmer to enhance the hues that flowed up from the grand, travertine floors of the entry. The stone was buffed flat to look raw, muting the shine to a dull haze. The house seemed to come alive under Eve’s touch and Cora, with her whirling energy, iron fists with the workers, hilarious wit, laughter and a few bottles of great French wine from her extravagant cellar, made it fun. Everything fell together as the house awoke into modern life.
Once or twice when the headaches got her, Eve tried to share what she was experiencing with Cora, but Cora laughed and asked only that she please share whatever psychedelic drug of choice was making her trip like a bad sixties movie.
“Better still, I don’t want any unless we can get you to make it into a happy high and have much more fun, Suga.” Cora said and focused them both onto the task at hand. “Now I won’t hear another word. Promise? There is much too much to do.”
“Promise,” Eve replied, knowing she would try to get Cora to help her figure out the Gregoire mystery.
Cora had been Eve’s best friend since she moved to New Orleans from Chicago. They met on a double date, got crazy drunk, dumped the guys and partied the rest of the night. They also almost died in a speed boat on Lake Charles, but Eve pulled Cora out and saved her life; a fact that bonded them for life. Cora was a seriously old moneyed, TFB (Trust Fund Baby) and had never worked a JOB a day in her life, but Eve knew better than most that, her dear friend was the hardest working woman in New Orleans’ old family, high society. Cordelia Belle Bouvier, Cora to her friends, had twelve generations of southern history flowing in her veins. She and Beau’s family bloodlines were among the oldest and most respected in the state. Cora sat on the Board of Directors of six charities, two banks, a liquor company and two universities. She was smart, beautiful, young, and very rich and she loved Eve like the sister she never had.
“You, you northern hussy, need to buy yourself a wedding dress. I’m taking your ass to Paris for Fashion Week and we are goin’ to go crazy! You better warn Beau you need his black American Express with no limit,” Cora told her.
“I could never max out a black card,” Eve said.
“That’s the point of it being black and bottomless. No one can max it out. However, I’ll teach you how to give it a workout, suga,” Cora replied making them both laugh so hard they cried.
Today Eve was alone. She found herself in one of the mansion’s four attics. Vast rooms inside pitched roofs with round windows covered in dust. There she’d found stacks of old paintings of Beau’s family covered with tattered, muslin cloth. Some paintings dated as far back as the seventeen hundreds. Each told a story about his family history. Their faces looked austere and stern to Eve. The men looked strong and determined to live life to the fullest in a world long forgotten. There was a powerful, cruel edge in the eyes of the men and a frightened plea in the eyes of the women that disturbed her. As she dragged the muslin off the largest painting, Eve covered her mouth and coughed from the haze of dust particles that danced on the sunlight around her. She gasped as she found herself staring face-to-face into the azure eyes of Pearlette and Gofney Lafayette Gregoire, Duke and Duchess of Maurice, dressed in the lace and velvet, gold and pearls that symbolized their wealth in both the old and the new world. There was a cold timelessness about their features she found disturbing. She found an ancient bible and looked on the page that listed the marriages and christenings. A handful of pages were torn out at the beginning and, on a rag of a page, she saw what looked like the name Gremoire. It was hard to read and had been scratched out and changed to Gregoire. She Googled them both. She found no reference to Gremoire, only a variation on the name found in some of the earliest writings in France that had something to do with dark, demonic magic. Eve was sure that was a mistake so she moved on to Google Gregoire, but here she discovered only snippets of their history, much of which had been lost to time or destroyed thanks to the fires that devastated their sprawling French chateau during the height of the French Revolution. They were harsh landlords feared and disliked by the people of the region. They were listed as killed by guillotine, but here they were… proof they’d escaped and come to America. They changed their destinies by fleeing the bloody blade of the guillotine to become the matriarch and patriarch of the Gregoire American lineage.
Eve could see their character and resolve in the set of their eyes, the tilt of their chins and the strength of their broad, erect shoulders and the same cold stare in Gofney’s eyes. Philip had his eyes, the eyes of a conqueror. Eve vowed Philip’s eyes would never be cruel… never. There was no question these were brave and strong adventurers who left their French chateau and vast lands in France to come to America and settle in the new world. Her son came from strong, noble genes. Eve ran her fingers across the ancient oil, cracked with age, and wondered what their journey from France must have been like; months across the turbulent Atlantic, into the gulf where they would change to a barge. The first glimpses of the wild, primordial bayou, filled with snakes and alligators, Indians and pirates, slaves and free blacks. Finally, up the Mississippi until the bustling frontier city of New Orleans unfolded like a blossom--exciting, deadly and beautiful. They’d bought land titles from Louis the Sixteenth long before the revolution, perhaps trying to help save France, perhaps visionary enough to see the inevitable demise of the aristocrats and the coming blood bath of the guillotine. Then, once in America, they fought charlatans, Native Americans, weather and bouts of Yellow and Scarlet Fever. They built the first wood and rock frame version of the mansion and carved out a life for themselves and their seven children with the ten thousand acre deed that would set their wealth for generations to come.
One Sunday, when the workmen were gone, the house was silent. Beau had taken Philip for a drive, so Eve returned to her secret adventure in the attic. This time she searched for the weathered old leather trunk with an arched lid and brass hinges and handles. It contained a treasure of old books, letters and papers. Most had fallen apart over the years from neglect, but a few of the books, maps and the antique bible that had caught her interest were still readable. Her French was modern, yet she could still make out who was who on the opening pages, which revealed the Gregoire family genealogy dating back to the twelfth century with detailed records mapping the family lineage. There was one more mention of the oldest lineage that tied to the name Gremiore. Again, the name was scratched and torn away. Every family book she looked into, dating back before the sixteenth century, always ended with the remains of the tattered pages, torn out and intentionally removed.
Eve brought the Bible down from the attic to show Beau, but, once again, he acted a true Southerner by saying he cared little about the past. Eve saw a flash of anger pass across his face before it was replaced by a sweet smile.
“This is the past and it’s done…unchangeable,” he said. “Let’s lay it to rest and live life here in the present. Please.”
He kissed her and she promised, but in her heart she knew she couldn’t. Family history meant something to her and besides, rummaging through the attics distracted her mind from the haunting images that plagued her. As a matter of fact, the headaches never came when she was up there among the historical treasures. The Gregoires have what she never did, a written chronicle of their family’s evolution. It was the history missing from her family. Her mother was an orphan who never knew anything about her real parents or their past, so these fascinating, ancient family histories of Beau’s had a very special meaning to her… her son would have the history she did not.
She read passages from some of the letters she found to Philip while he nursed or when he was falling asleep, sharing with him the names of his six times great grandmother and grandfather, aunts and uncles, cousins and on and on and their trials and tribulations, triumphs and joys. There were letters that detailed how many of their children had died, some as stillborn babies, some killed by raiders, pirates and Native Americans attempting to re-claim the land stolen from them. Some of their children were lost in the American Revolution and some of the next generation in the War of 1812. Then, there were years of peace: weddings, births, deaths, until mother nature intervened and brought droughts that destroyed the cotton and food crops and then, when things looked their blackest, kindly gave them long periods of abundance once more. They bought more land and in hard times sold thousands of acres. The Yellow Fever in 1830 and then again in 1850 took so many sons and daughters, mothers and fathers. Eve could see the tears Suzette, a pale-skinned, fair-haired slip of a girl, wept as she wrote. Suzette’s tears dried deep into the page, smudging the ox blood ink and leaving tiny concentric circles splattered like raindrops: sad stains etched by time onto the page forever. Eve brushed her fingers across the sepia-colored paper. She could feel the kindred soul of the young woman they once belonged to sadly watching those she loved die of the fever and being left behind, cursed to live and carry the family name with her brother and sons. Suzette said in one letter she accepted the burden of what she had taken on when she married into the Gregoire family, but she learned about the truth too late to change what had been destined.
“Had been destined,” Eve whispered to herself, pondering the meaning as she ran her fingers across the words.
Beau and Cora insisted she keep her focus on the job at hand and again Eve promised, but Eve found herself compelled to return to the attics and dig through the dust-covered past every chance she could get. There were answers there to questions she wasn’t sure how to ask, but her journalistic mind drove her along with the whispers and images that haunted her thoughts. It seemed to her that being in the attic and digging through the past quelled the dreams as if to say, we will be still if you keep looking for the truth.
The central attic held memorabilia left from the Civil War. The war claimed the lives of Maurice De Cuire Gregoire and four of his seven sons. A tattered piece of the red, white and blue stripes and stars of a flag, the thread-worn fabric faded and frayed, made Eve realize that two of the brothers had fought on the side of the North. One son and one daughter were all who were left to his wife Claudette. She, with her two children, picked up the pieces of the remaining lands and spoiled crops and rebuilt. They survived, lifted their heads, and carried the Gregoire name into the future. Maurice had saved them by opening bank accounts in the North. When the South fell and the Confederate dollar became worthless, Claudette loaded her eldest living son into a buggy, rode to New Orleans, caught the paddle ferry up the Mississippi River, and finally boarded a train to New York to retrieve their northern cash, which would allow them to rebuild, buy seeds and land and pay workers.
The attics held many other wonders: old clothes, hats, paintings, and photo albums with tintypes and black-and-white photos of happy times, trips to Europe, China and Egypt. An entire album was dedicated to a safari in Africa with too many pictures of dead elephants and lions. That cruelty had made her put the books away and stay out of the attic for weeks. But one cool day she found herself in the west attic amid remnants from the First World War, the Great Depression, and the Second World War.
Over the centuries the Gregoire family had also known a few scandals. The most interesting she found in the north wing’s attic. The greatest scandal of them all involved Beau’s grandfather and the Le Masters side of the family. From the letters Eve found in the north attic, buried in a pile of papers stuffed into an old wood and silver letter box, she learned that none of the Le Masters were liked. In fact, they were downright hated.
Millard made numerous attempts to come by with gifts for his grandson, flowers for Eve and heartfelt peace offerings for Beau, but as their legal case became more and more tangled Beau finally asked him to stay away. He’d screwed things up so royally it would take an army of attorneys and a small fortune to undo what Millard had done. Eventually Millard stopped trying. The last gift he sent Philip was a little, sterling silver bracelet that looked as if it had been in the Le Masters family. Beau told Eve to please send it back. Instead she placed it in a cedar keepsake box and hoped for better times and forgiveness.
She’d brought some of the more current photo and picture albums downstairs to share with Beau. Again that flash of anger clouded his usually tranquil blue eyes as once again she explained her need to know him and his family because she had no history of her own. Beau stared at the books for a long time before he released a long sigh and crossed to sit next to her.
“I won’t do this if it pains you, Beau,” Eve said.
“Yes you will,” he said with a sad smile. “You’ll do it until you understand whatever it is you’re looking for in my family’s history. So, perhaps if I can help you find it we can let this all go and move on with our lives. I need you to be okay and comfortable with who you’re marrying and all that comes with it. So open the pages and ask me what you want. I’ll do my best to answer,” Beau said. “If you don’t trust me completely, this won’t work.”
Eve looked at him to understand the subtext of his words. He’d agreed so she opened the first album.
She’d found the photos from the seventies and eighties when Beau’s mother, father and younger sister were still alive. They looked to be a very happy family. Until his sister’s death in an odd accident Beau described as “the fall,” they had been happy. Then time seemed to stop. There were no more pictures of birthdays, holidays, trips or happy occasions. He told Eve the loss of his younger sister left a dark cloud over the house that sucked the joy out of everyone and everything - especially the Gregoire home.
Then, even more mysteriously, soon after that dark time of his sister’s accident, Beau’s parents’ unexpectedly died in a car accident. Their deaths killed the heart of the house and made living there unbearable. Beau’s grandfather, Millard, who’d never been welcome when his parents were alive, stepped in to raise him. They looked at a few snapshots of a sad little boy of twelve being sent off to Europe to attend a prestigious boarding school in Switzerland. From there only a few awkward shots at Beau’s graduations, both from high school and then from Oxford University were stuck into the pages of his high school year book. His grandfather was there, but the pictures were clear evidence of the distance that loomed between them; never touching or even standing too close, like a sharp knife cut the air between them. In every picture Beau kept his distance, obviously wanting no part of his past or the vast fortune he’d been bequeathed by his parents or his Grandfather, Millard Le Masters.
After University, Beau told her how he’d traveled and worked in Europe until one day he just walked away. He vanished for eight years exploring Africa, New Zealand and South America. Until a letter from Beau’s oldest and dearest friend, Augustus Valentine Lafayette the fourth, aka A.V. came with the knowledge that the family estate, the only home Beau’d ever known, was about to be lost to him. A.V.’s letter convinced Beau to give up his freedom and come home. Beau explained to Eve that he’d called A.V. and together they called the estate’s lead attorney. Lincoln Bryant, senior most partner of the prestigious law firm and Beau’s father’s friend and attorney, told him he’d all but lost everything because he’d been declared dead by his only living relative, his grandfather so he’d better get his ass back to New Orleans. Mister Bryant and A.V. started the paper work to raise Beau from the dead, but his presence would be needed in court as proof of life.
“That’s when I came back,” Beau said, explaining that he’d told no one except A.V. he was returning. Unannounced, he arrived at his family’s mansion the afternoon of that fateful summer night they’d met. He’d come home, gone into his old room, uncovered the dresser and bed, crawled under the covers and fallen asleep.
“When I woke it was dark and the party was in full swing. I showered and dressed, remembering only then A.V.’s letter said the house was being used for a gala to raise money for the Southern Belles Charity.”
“A.V. Lafayette adores you,” Eve added.
“He’s a good friend and a great attorney. He’d suggested I wait an extra day before I came back, but I’d gotten the dates turned around and somehow came in the day of the event,” Beau said.
Beau never told Eve that A.V. had been in love with him, wishing Beau would see him as more than a friend, a wish that blossomed when they were pubescent boys, or what had transpired between them the night of his parents’ death.
“I remember you dressed in that crisp white shirt and blue slacks,” Eve said.
“I found them in my closet and that old blue jacket somehow still fit well enough to finish off my ensemble.”
“That jacket fit tight as a kid glove and you looked like Adonis descending.” Eve said with a smile and held an old photo of a much younger Beau. “You definitely filled out from your days as a slender youth.”
Beau smiled and they shared a kiss.
“I’m glad you liked what you saw,” he added.
“I never had a chance. I was smitten from the moment I laid eyes on you,” Eve said.
Beau talked about how he’d found his way down the curved entry stairs and stepped over the velvet rope put in place to keep the lookie-loos from exploring the upstairs. He had been starving and in search of food and drink. A passing waitress flirted and made it her business to keep him satiated with his favorite poison; a glass of scotch, neat, that went straight to his head. He talked about foraging the buffet tables for food, nibbling from the delicious display of Southern delights he’d missed so much in his travels. Their scents, spicy and sweet, ignited his olfactory nerves and had his mouth watering. He’d made sure to sample everything.
“I never tasted a bit,” Eve said, remembering her terrifying entrance with a laugh. It was good for her to remember those last hours before the coma. She liked talking about them and so did Beau.
“I’d been gone a long time and I certainly didn’t look like the twelve-year-old boy who left New Orleans. I watched as several women eyed me like a steak dinner on a plate and whisper between them about who would get first bite.”
“They were wondering who you were,” Eve added.
“One or two of the bold ones sashayed up and did their best to say clever things about the night or the house, blatantly flirting, but none of them got the satisfaction of discovering who I was, where I came from or why I was there,” Beau explained and laughed.
“You are a wonderfully wicked trickster. And, I have to say, I like your lack of humility,” Eve said.
“Hey, I was looking for you. I just didn’t know it,” he replied.
Again they kissed.
“So, how did you say you found me?” Eve asked, knowing the answer.
Beau smiled as he told her again how he’d found a shaded corner near the entrance to the main living room between the large, exotic plants the decorator had brought in for the party. They stood majestically and filled the space and gave just enough covering for him to sit, eat and drink undisturbed, allowing him to watch the night unfold from the shadows.
“The same men, ever Southern pompous and arrogant, and the women with too much make up bored me. Add to that the scotch, great Louisiana cooking and the fatigue from my jet lag and I was so relaxed I was falling asleep in my secret hideaway. That’s when I gave up, dragged myself to my feet and was just about to head up the stairs when I saw an awkwardly adorable and very beautiful stranger with a river of long, honey hair standing at the entrance trying to convince herself to find the courage to enter the room,” Beau laughed.
“I wasn’t talking out loud,” Eve said, horrified at the thought.
“Your honesty radiates like the sun and you become a piece of glass, so transparent I can see your every perfection, my darling almost wife,” Beau said.
Eve melted into his arms. He’d told her the story a thousand times, but each time she heard it, it made her smile.
They kissed and talked about how the music from the DJ changed to a slow, sensual ballad called “Will You Remember Me?” by Brenna Whitaker. A title they each thought appropriate in hindsight – a song that had become their song.
“It was the music that pushed me forward until my arms slipped around your waist,” he said. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you with power that defies explanation.”
“You know you touched me and the room and everyone in it disappeared,” Eve added.
“And when we danced, we floated across that room,” Beau told her, cuddling and kissing her neck.
They each recalled their versions of dancing gracefully out onto the veranda and into the garden or when it was she’d lost her shoes.
“I felt as though I was holding living, breathing electricity,” Beau said. “Somehow I captured this ethereal, energetic light; beauty and grace inside of one being and I wasn’t ever going to let it go.”
“I felt the same,” Eve said with a nod. “You held me in your arms and when your lips touched mine and it turned into that first kiss – so sweet, gentle, innocent and yet… Fireworks.”
“No, it was the second kiss I gave you,” said Beau, “That kiss made me feel like I was a God being driven by some insatiable, indefinable hunger. You made time stand still and the world melt away.”
Tears of joy welled in Eve’s eyes. She told him how when her mouth met his, she had no choice but to give herself to him, surrendering with utter abandon was her only option. Clothes fell away and they made wild, passionate love surrounded by the thick foliage of the garden’s hedge maze.
“How many hours did we make love?” he asked.
“There is no time when I make love to you. That’s what you do to me.”
“Good,” Beau kissed her.
He slipped his fingers inside her and felt how wet and ready she was to be taken. Eve’s eyes glazed over as he fondled her breasts with his other hand and kissed her mouth. It hung open, suspended in the shape of a tiny, perfect ‘o’ beckoning him to slip his tongue inside. Her hands found his cock, each stroking motion making him harder and harder.
Between the kisses, sucking and strokes, Beau whispered about how they built up the I-can’t-get-enough-of-your-passion, almost coming over and over, again and again, but holding back until they finally climaxed together.
She moaned, uttering between his kisses how in that final, sensual thrust of passion, she’d somehow known the exact moment when he’d given her his child.
“Tell me. You knew the instant Philip was conceived?” Beau asked.
“With all my heart I believe so. What I didn’t know was that he was a Gregoire with hundreds of years of history flowing into each dividing cell,” Eve recalled breathlessly. “But, my fiery master of love, at that moment you could have been a Troglodyte for all I cared.”
Beau’s fingers worked in and out as Eve’s breathing escalated, matching his.
“I exploded from the inside out,” Eve said
“You were magnificent. Your arched back, bare tits to the sky,” Beau said.
“And slammed my head on the statue and knocked myself out,” Eve said laughing.
Beau threw her back and slipped inside of her.
“I thought I’d killed you,” Beau said.
“Best sex I ever had in my life,” Eve said.
The story made them both laugh until they cried tears of embarrassment and joy. Beau climbed on top of her and slipped inside. They made love and kissed, holding onto each other as they always did when they shared their story. They made Eve’s favorite kind of love; the mad, passionate, ride me until I scream with breathless delight and bring me to our highest climax kind of love. Spent, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Hours later, Eve woke. Tangled in his arms and legs and exhausted, she held Beau while she stroked his hair thinking how excited she was to be his wife and to be part of a family. Her thoughts went to Philip. The Gregoires had married and repopulated through the centuries, their children born with thick black ribbons of curls and azure blue eyes … until Philip.
Eve had seen the evolution of his features, each detail memorialized in oil, painted on ancient canvases, held captive in the gilded frames that displayed them. She had explored the paintings and letters and photos and all the dust-covered memorabilia and found the line of genetics that carried his features and those impossibly dark eyes. Sadly, she knew her family didn’t have his nose or eyes or hair. She could only see Beau in him. Beau had his mother’s eyes. None of it mattered. She loved her son and she felt certain she would forever be unconditionally in love with his father.
Restless, she untangled herself from Beau and walked down the stairs. Eve meandered around their guest house. It was small and sweet, but she’d made enough changes in the antiquated décor so it felt like home at least until the big house was complete. She raided the refrigerator in the tiny kitchen and ate cold, fresh picked peaches, hungrily biting into them and letting the sweet juices run down her chin until it made her smile. Then, having made a mess of her face and her night gown, she headed up and into her bathroom, dropped her clothes on the floor in a heap and stepped naked into the warm water of her shower. The shower spray tingled and caressed her body, still electric from making love to Beau. His scent hung on her skin, his taste still lingered on her lips. There was no question, she loved him and he made her very happy.
Her hands mindlessly soaped her body as Eve enjoyed the slippery bubbles as they lathered up in between her fingers. She washed her face, then her breasts. They felt fuller because of Philip’s nursing and Beau’s reverent attention to them, but the rest of her body was tight. She’d lost the baby weight. The long walks along the back forty made her muscles feel lean, firm and strong. She let her fingers slip down her stomach, across the tuft of blonde hair and between her legs. As she touched herself she thought of Beau again. She wanted him again. He had that effect on her. Eve smiled imagining her hands were Beau’s hands caressing her, arousing her, loving her. The water seemed to beat harder as she fingered her clitoris. She stepped closer, straddling the shower’s lower body jet. It had just the right amount of force and pushed right at her G spot. Eve stepped closer and closer until the rush of water pressed against her mound. She massaged her breasts and fondled her nipples as the water did its magic. Her breath quickened. Her head fell back, arching her spine as her erect nipples brushed the cool of the tile shower wall. The steam of water from above swirled over her, moist and hot. Eve turned up the water pressure until the sensation felt unbearably delicious and, just as she climaxed, her fingers slipped inside.
Her eyes closed. She gasped with pleasure when suddenly an explosion of wild images filled her mind. At the same time, something physically grabbed her filling her, inside as if it were trying to possess her body. There was only blackness. Eve’s arms reached out to push the invisible force away. The harder she pushed the more it pressed in against her, holding her as she struggled. Whatever it was she could feel it all over her body, grabbing her breasts, sucking on her nipples, licking at her clitoris. It was inside her, huge, thick, hot pumping in and out and in a matter of seconds she erupted in orgasm. The fire of her orgasm pulsed in her inner walls and seized her in spasms so powerful it weakened her legs and sent her crashing down to her knees in a prayer of pleasure and horror. She knelt on the tiles in the rush of cascading, hot water, panting and wanting more of whatever surged inside her. Part of Eve wanted it to stop; the other part spread her legs, as it plunged deeper, pressing her into the floor. She opened her mouth to cry out for Beau, but a huge hand covered her face, leaving her in silent blackness.
“Beau,” she whispered in her mind hearing only the echo of her helpless cry. Useless words swallowed up by the crash of water flailing against her on the shower floor.
She called again for Beau to come, to protect her from the blinding, senseless images that crowded into her brain. It was as if they were pushing her toward some bottomless pit of erotic insanity. The images pulled her deeper into spiraling depths of pleasure so overwhelming she knew, if she gave in to them, she would disappear forever and never find her way back. There, on the shower floor, trembling, she made her mouth open and she screamed.
“Stop!”
In an instant the vision stopped and the simple sound of water falling was all that filled her ears. Unable to move, Eve allowed the water to cascade down on top of her and wash the fear from her mind. Lying on the shower floor, she grabbed the shampoo and scrubbed the attic dust from her hair and the strange feelings off her skin. She scrubbed so hard she thought her fingers would bleed. She was attempting to banish the thoughts and images she feared could only be the first signs of …what…insanity? Was she losing her mind? Was what happened a hallucination or was it real? Her body ached. She tried to shift her focus to all the responsibilities that awaited her. Trembling, Eve struggled to her feet, rinsed the soap away and stepped out of the shower. She held the wall as she sank to the floor, still weak and drained. Something caught her eye and when she looked up she saw Beau standing in the bathroom doorway towering above her, naked with his erect cock jutting into the room. It looked more like a weapon than a penis to Eve. When she could tear her eyes away from his raging erection, she looked up into his face. His expression was dreamlike and placid as if he were sleepwalking.
“Beau,” she whispered.
He didn’t look at her. He just stared wide-eyed into the room. Hearing his name, his erection melted and he turned and left without saying a word. Eve turned off the shower and listened as Beau’s footsteps padded down the hall and descended the back stairs. What the fuck was the only thought that passed through her head.
She reached for a plush towel, gently dried herself and applied pear-scented lotion on her skin. Every inch of her skin ached as if it had been bruised, but there were no visible marks and the simple act of lotioning her body calmed her. Her hands vibrated with the slightest tremor like an old woman with weak muscles struggling to do the most mundane of tasks. Eve brushed and braided her hair into a long single plait. Her first step made it clear her legs were still weak. She dressed in a simple, pale green shift dress that gathered at her waist and had her favorite bone buttons running up its front. Carefully, she walked from her room, through the guest house second floor and down to the nursery. She suddenly felt concerned for her son’s safety. The look in Beau’s eyes haunted her. First she would take care of Philip, then she would deal with Beau.
Philip’s room was peaceful and warm. Streams of soft yellow light reached through the window, flickering from harsh to soft, illuminating the chiffon curtains as they danced on the warm breeze that slipped in to fill the room. His nursery was the color of a summer sky with voluminous ivory clouds painted on the walls and ceiling. The color deepened into a periwinkle as it reached the bassinette and the clouds faded, allowing a tiny constellation of stars to splatter across the ceiling above her baby’s head. Eve tip-toed closer and looked down at her son with his black satin curls. He looked up at her. His eyes were the darkest brown she’d ever seen, the color of pure, bittersweet, dark chocolate found in the best Swiss candy. Sometimes, in low light, she would gaze into Philip’s eyes and feel as if she were drowning in two dark, shimmering pools of liquid velvet. His eyes seemed to pierce her soul. He knows I am losing my mind, she thought. His knowing stare held her. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to look away. Again, she felt a rush of fear as she fell into her son’s eyes. He knew and then he would gurgle and smile and reach for her finger or pull her hair and the icy feeling of fear melted away and Eve fell in love all over again. Philip smiled up at her and Eve reached into his crib and gathered him up into her arms.
After her strength returned, she and Philip would walk in the gardens and orchards surrounding their mansion, breathing the soft air of spring, then summer, and now the chill of fall. The unseasonably frosty nights had destroyed any fruit still left on the trees and turned the leaves from light green to a dark emerald and jade forest. It wouldn’t be long before the deciduous trees, the sycamore and elm, did their dance of color and turned to shades of gold, orange and burgundy, before dropping to the ground so she and Philip could play, roll around, and throw them into the cloudy blue sky and laugh as they watched leaves drift, caught on the swirl of an autumn breeze.
Noticing the changes in weather reminded Eve of the many arguments she and her journalist friends had had about global warming. Eve suddenly realized 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.
