Page 9 of Nineteen Eighty

“Of course. It gets lonely out here in Virginia, with only politicians, agents, and protestors to keep me warm at night.”

They both laughed. Cassie had been celibate for years.

“If you don’t make it to Switzerland in June, we’ll see each other in the fall for our annual foundation meeting,” Evangeline said. She lifted her suitcase from the bed and made her way through her apartment, switching off lights, yanking the cord when it got caught on something.

“Yeah. But I’ll try to be there, Evie. I want to be there. For you. I really do hope you know how proud I am of you.” Cassie’s voice caught. “How much I love you.”

“I love you too, Cass,” Evangeline said, her worry growing rather than waning. She peered through the lace curtain. “My taxi is here. I’ll call you when I get to New Orleans, so you know I made it safely.”

She could almost hear Cassie smile through the phone. “You better.”

CHAPTER 3

You

“Lisette, come on. It’s just dinner. Maybe some drinks.”

“I’m pregnant, Charles!”

Charles’ cheeks flushed, some anger, some flustering. “I know that, of course, but I’m just trying to say it’s no biggie. Just our friends. Casual.”

“Your friends.”

The comment was meant to diminish herself, but it cut Charles instead. Three daughters, and another one on the way, and Lisette still struggled to understand her position in the household. She’d given him everything… or at least, everything he could expect, under the circumstances. He’d give her the world, if only she’d let him.

But he understood now something he hadn’t allowed himself to understand before. On some level, anyway, he knew Lisette didn’t love him now and never had.

“You still love her?” Lisette asked. There was no jealousy in the question, only mocking accusation.

“No, and not for a long time,” he answered, tired of reassuring her every single time Colin and Catherine came for a visit. “That ended when you began.”

“Charming.”

“The two things had nothing to do with one another.”

Lisette laughed. “You love me because you can’t love her.”

Charles rubbed his hand across the week-long stubble lining his mouth and chin. “For the last time, I do not want to talk about Catherine Sullivan. Ever. Okay?”

“You never want to talk about anything. You only want to fuck.”

Charles flushed again. She rarely spoke with such vulgarity, and contrary to how it had turned him on, years before, when Catherine had done it—come fuck me, Charles—it repulsed him coming from the sweet, young Lisette.

There was a problem somewhere in that feeling that he was afraid to identify.

“We ain’t doing much of that with you about to burst,” Charles murmured.

“You no suffer. I see you no deny yourself.”

Charles whipped his head around. There was no way she could know about his afternoons in the Bourbon Orleans. “So that’s a no on dinner, then?”

“Yes, Charles. That is no.” She rubbed her swollen belly. “I play with Nathalie, Giselle, and Lucienne. Maybe, too, that son you no love.”

Charles’ eyes narrowed into tight slits. “Watch it, Lis. There’s some things I won’t tolerate. Even from you.”

Time had softened the pain of Catherine’s smile.

It used to take great effort for him to laugh at the jokes she’d make, or feign interest in her stories. To pretend everything was okay, when it was not okay, not even a little bit.

---