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In the quiet outskirts, nestled amidst leafy corners and orange trees, there lay a hidden gem—a garden sanctuary where time seemed to pause. An old cat basked lazily in the sun, and a seasoned mulatresse, keeper of this tranquil oasis, presided over the green tables, offering exquisite delights like none other. Her coffee was renowned, her fried chicken a golden marvel.
This humble haven, too modest for the elite and too serene for the revelers, had become Evelyn’s cherished discovery. She stumbled upon it by chance, drawn in by the dappled sunlight and the nostalgic taste of Iberville’s milk. It became a retreat during her wanderings, a place to read under the whispering trees, occasionally dining alone in its peaceful embrace.
On one such quiet afternoon, as she savored a simple meal, engrossed in a book and stroking the friendly feline, Taylor entered through the gate, surprising her yet not entirely unexpected. “Fate seems to delight in our chance encounters,” she remarked, making space for him at the table.
“Have you frequented this place?” he inquired, visibly taken aback.
“It’s become a second home to me,” she confessed, offering to share her meal with him. Her initial resolve to remain distant melted away in his presence, replaced by a candid curiosity.
“Why have you kept your distance?” she asked, closing her book.
“Why the interrogation, Mrs. McPherson? Must we dance around veiled excuses?” His words carried a hint of frustration. “I might say I’ve been busy, or unwell, or that my attempts to visit you were thwarted. Pick one.”
“You’re self-absorbed,” she retorted. “You shield yourself from something—I don’t know what—but your neglect is palpable. You’re insensitive to how I perceive it. Call it unwomanly if you must; I’ve grown accustomed to speaking my mind.”
“You’re not cruel, just inadvertently callous,” he countered. “You prod at wounds without intent to heal.”
“Let’s not spoil the meal with words,” she deflected, noticing his untouched food.
“I only came for coffee,” he admitted, his demeanor softened by the serene ambiance.
“This place is a hidden gem,” she changed the subject. “It’s serene, untouched. Have you noticed the silence? It’s a rarity these days. And the coffee—always piping hot. Celestine’s coffee doesn’t compare. Do try some cress with your chop; it adds a delightful zest. And here, you can enjoy a smoke with your coffee. In the city—aren’t you going to smoke?”
“After a while,” he remarked, placing a cigar on the table.
“Who’s the generous giver of cigars?” she teased.
“I actually bought this one. I might be turning reckless; got a whole box,” he confessed, trying to lighten the mood.
The cat, finding a new companion in Taylor, nestled into his lap as he smoked. He ran his fingers through her silky fur, engaging in small talk about her quirks. Glancing at Evelyn’s book, which he had perused earlier, he spared her the effort of finishing it by sharing its ending.
Once again, he escorted her back home, the evening casting shadows as they arrived at her quaint abode, nicknamed the “pigeon-house.” Sensing her unspoken invitation, he chose not to linger, grateful for the unspoken understanding that spared him from awkward excuses. Helping her light the lamp, he watched as she disappeared into her room to freshen up.
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When she returned, Taylor was no longer perusing magazines; instead, he sat in contemplative silence, lost in thought. Evelyn, after tidying up the books, approached him, bending over the arm of his chair to get his attention.
“Taylor,” she whispered, “are you awake?”
His gaze met hers as he replied, “Yes, I am.”
She leaned in and planted a soft, lingering kiss on his lips, a delicate touch that ignited a fervor within him. Drawing her closer, he held her, enveloped in a moment of tenderness. She reciprocated, her hand caressing his cheek as their emotions spilled over.
“Now you understand,” he murmured, “what I’ve struggled with since last summer; what brought me back.”
“Why did you fight it?” she inquired, her face aglow with affection.
“Because you were bound to Léonce McPherson. I couldn’t help loving you, even knowing that,” he confessed, his emotions laid bare.
“But you never wrote to me,” she interjected.
“Somewhere, I convinced myself you cared for me, and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but the dream of you being mine,” he admitted, his face flushed with emotion.
“You dreamed of the impossible,” she reminded him gently, her fingers tracing his features.
“In Mexico, thoughts of you consumed me,” he continued, his voice filled with longing.
“But when you returned, you avoided me,” she observed, still caressing his cheek.
“I realized how foolish it was, even if you were willing,” he confessed, his tone tinged with regret.
Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him tenderly, each touch a declaration of their shared passion. Their exchange was interrupted by a knock at the door—a messenger with urgent news.
As Evelyn prepared to leave, Taylor pleaded, “Don’t go. Stay with me.”
“I must go, but I’ll return,” she promised, embracing him one last time. Her words echoed with longing, weaving a bond of mutual devotion between them.
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Evelyn peered into the drug store, observing Monsieur Rogers as he meticulously prepared a concoction, dropping a crimson liquid into a tiny glass. His gratitude for her presence was palpable; he believed her being there would bring comfort to his ailing wife. Madame Rogers, enduring a trying time without her usual support, had been inconsolable until Evelyn, in her kindness, promised to be with her. The nurse, having traveled a great distance, had been attending to them during the nights, and Dr. Mandelet had been in and out throughout the afternoon, expected back imminently.
Taking a private stairway from the rear of the store to the apartments above, Evelyn found the children peacefully sleeping in a back room. Madame Rogers, on the other hand, sat in the salon, draped in a flowing white peignoir, her face drawn and weary, her once vibrant eyes now dulled by pain. Her hair, usually a cascade of golden locks, was now gathered tightly in a braid on the sofa pillow. The nurse, a comforting figure in her white apron and cap, urged Madame to return to her bedroom.
“There’s no use,” Madame lamented to Evelyn. “We need to find a more reliable doctor; Mandelet is too careless.”
The nurse, maintaining her cheerfulness even in such circumstances, tried to comfort Madame, but her distress was evident. Wiping her sweat-drenched forehead, Madame expressed her frustration at the delay, feeling abandoned and neglected.
“Neglected, indeed!” exclaimed the nurse, trying to reassure her. She pointed out the imminent arrivals of Monsieur Rogers and Dr. Mandelet, which seemed to placate Madame momentarily.
As Madame Rogers reluctantly returned to her room, Doctor Mandelet arrived, accustomed to Madame’s outbursts during such moments. He welcomed Evelyn and suggested she join him in the salon, but Madame insisted she stay by her side.
Amidst the anguished moments, Madame Rogers found solace in light conversation, diverting her mind from her suffering. Evelyn, however, grew increasingly uneasy, a vague dread settling over her. Memories of her own past experiences during childbirth surfaced faintly, a mixture of pain, anesthesia, and the miracle of new life.
She wished she hadn’t come, feeling her presence was unnecessary. Yet, she remained, silently witnessing the agony unfold, her heart rebelling against the harsh realities of childbirth.
After the ordeal, as she leaned over to bid her friend farewell, Madame Rogers, exhausted yet still mindful, whispered, “Think of the children, Evelyn. Oh, think of the children! Remember them!”