I noticed the changes in her body, her widening hips, her faintly extending stomach, the fullness of her breasts. Stupidly, I thought it was the natural effects of good Southern cooking. It was natural alright. And now I’m going to be a father—and a husband. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t have to. It was in the way she crumbled into my arms, in the way she made love to me. It sounds corny, but last night was more than fucking. More than anything I experienced before her. I don’t know what I had with Lotte, but it was a shadow of what I have with Rae.
She materializes from the bathroom, her inky curls fastened atop her head in a style I can best describe as something Marie Antoinette might wear, leaving her elongated neck and creamy shoulders exposed. Rivaling her midnight hair, her satin dress with feminine lace accents fits her perfectly, the long hemline sweeping across her heeled feet. A metal-lace mask conceals the upper half of her face, her bourbon stunners hidden by the shadowed eyeholes, her lips floating underneath, two red velvet pillows against white walls of flawless flesh.
Mine, a voodoo skull mask.
“You’re missing something,” I comment, amused by her reaction. She was expecting a compliment, not a suggestion.
“What?”
I amble to her, my arm hooked around my back. “This.” I pull the black magnolia out from its hiding place.
“Greier, it’s...”
“Not nearly as stunning as you.” I unclasp the pin. “Allow me.”
She smiles and nods.
I lift the flower to her hair, above her ear, and secure it. She turns to the mirror and admires her reflection. The midnight petals almost blend into the pure black of her impeccably set hair, but not quite.
“Why did you pick this?” she asks, a faint quake in her voice, her eyes piercing mine through the mirror.
“It reminds me of you.” I step up behind her, pressing my front into her elegant back and the plump mound of her backside. “You might underestimate it at first impression, assume it’s like any other flower, but it’s stronger than it appears. It was made to survive. I’ve watched you blossom from a closed off bud to a strong magnolia. My beautiful, black magnolia.”
“Thank you,” she says, her head rolling back onto my chest.
“My pleasure, cher.”
I want time with Reagan before partygoers arrive. I’ve asked Mame to cook us dinner. I’m starving. I assume she must be, too.
I escort her down the stairs, staff running around like ants terrified of the evil kid with a magnifying glass. Every entrance and floor-to-ceiling window in the house is open, the front and back doors included. We’re expecting overflow onto the patio and grounds surrounding the manor. There aren’t any guests yet, but with the staff running around to prepare, it’s easier to open everything.
We enter the formal dining room since Mame insisted I stay out of the kitchen while the hired staff of twenty prepare for the party. Deciding the table is way too long, we sit across from one another at the same end. Not long after, the true head of this household walks out of the kitchen with our dinner. I told her it was ridiculous to serve us when I had two perfectly capable hands, but she swore she’d kill me if I set foot in her kitchen tonight. I attempt conversation with her, but she isn’t having it. She’s got a million things to oversee. I’m sure requesting dinner added to her bottomless list of to-dos, but with Rae eating for two, I wanted her to have something before the craziness of the party.
She shuffles back to the kitchen, and I call, “Thank you, Mame.”
“No time,” she mumbles.
I laugh. Reagan smiles and then glimpses at her plate.
“This looks a-mazing,” she says, studying the étouffée of crawfish and rice with ravenous eyes.
“Should we remove our masks?”
She shakes her head. “I like the anonymity.”
“Me too.”
“May I ask you something?” she asks, digging in.
“Anything.” And I mean it. She could ask me absolutely anything and I would show complete transparency. I want Rae to know me. I want to know her.
“How long has this place been in your family?”
That’s it? Such formality for a perfectly informal question.
“It depends,” I reply vaguely.
“On?” she urges me.
“Well, I suppose I’d have to start when my several-times great grandfather, Gerard Dixon, swindled the land from Marcel Bordeaux, the Cajun man who owned it.”
Her eyes grow wide behind the shadows of their peepholes.
“His family resided in the bayou toward the back of the property. There were acres of fertile land to grow sugar cane. Gerard went to him, offering him twice what the land was worth. Bordeaux declined. He came back and offered them a cut of the profits, told them he’d even grant them to continue living their simple lives in the swamp. He still declined. But Dixon was ruthless, coming back time and time again. The answer was always no.
“One night, Gerard decided to pay Bordeaux a visit, to make amends for harassing him the previous several months. He invited Bordeaux to Gallatin Street, where the Quarter offered every lustful decadence a man could want, sex, booze, gambling, anything went. Dixon brought him to the most notorious whorehouse, spared no expense getting him drunk on women and pricey alcohol. Once Bordeaux was good and smashed, Dixon pressured him into a game of cards, knowing fully well Bordeaux was in no position to play. He could barely see the numbers and shapes floating around on his cards. Needless to say, Bordeaux lost more money than he’d ever earn. It really wasn’t much, but to him, he may as well have owed him his soul. It was a game with the devil. Dixon pulled out a stack of papers, telling him if he didn’t want to owe him, he’d sign over his property. He had no choice, and he signed his life away on the dotted line. It started a war between the two families that lasted for generations.”
“Wow,” she breathes, totally invested in the story of Sweetwater. “What stopped it?”
“Moi.”
“You?”
“My mother was the great, great, great, great, great, great granddaughter of Marcel Bordeaux. And my father of Gerard Dixon. When they had me, the families settled their differences enough to get along for my sake. That’s why I know both sides of the story. I found the truth somewhere in between.”
“That’s quite the family history.”
“You have no idea,” I mutter, raking my fork through my food.
“You aren’t very close with your mother’s family, are you?”
“Did Izzie tell you I wasn’t?” I ask.
Apparently, my best friend’s loyalty is divided between us.
Rae takes a sip of water and clears her throat. “Why aren’t you close with them?” she interrogates me further, ignoring my question.
I snicker to myself. That answers that.
“It’s my aunt and her family. Most everyone else is dead from that side. They grew up poor, in their modest shack in the bayou, watching Tobias and his family benefit from the blood of their kin. She hated my mother for marrying him. Mostly because he had money, and Blanche wanted it. My mother didn’t care about his wealth, she never did. She loved him. My aunt despised my mother for it, for having more money and not caring she had it. Even when Blanche married a wealthy counterpart, the son of another sugar mogul, the relationship between her and my mother never recovered. She didn’t even know my mother got everything in the divorce. My mother knew if she told her, she’d never see her sister again. So, she lied, said there was no money and they had to sell off the property. When my mother died, Blanche cut ties with me, erased us.”
“Why did your parents’ marriage end?”
“Tobias was used to a superfluous type of lifestyle, money, parties, booze, women. He wasn’t willing to give it up. He loved my mom in his own twisted way. When she divorced him, he gave her everything, most of the money, the land, and kept the building on Bourbon for himself. He wanted to know she’d always have a safe place to come to. After she passed, when I came to live with Tobias and things got unbearable, I’d run away and come here. Mame would take care of me.”
“Must’ve been hard not having a family to lean on.”
“I’ve made my own family.”
“Yes,” she utters, “you have.”
Under the trim of black lace, the apples of her cheeks pinken and her eyes cast down at her belly.
I love the promise of a tomorrow—to a future with her in it. Her and our unborn child.
Masked guests flood every room, each disguise elaborate and unique. A few women give me inviting eyes through the eyeholes. There’s a mystery to masquerading, a sensuality. Makes you want to lose your inhibitions. The women are attractive in a typical Southern way. But none come close to the sophisticated stunner hanging on my arm as I greet everyone. Most who know me seem put off by the smile plastered on my face, the warmth in my voice. But Rae does that to me.
After I welcome everyone from the foyer staircase and give a quick toast, I escort my plus one (two) to the ballroom for the first dance, a tradition since the beginning. Like smiling, I don’t dance often, and it’s not from a lack of knowhow. I just never found anyone I wanted to dance with—before Rae.
Greier leads me around the ballroom packed with masked strangers, with a grace my other dance partners never possessed. Others slowly move onto the floor, spinning and dipping around us in the center. It’s romantic. New Orleans, the bayou, the old-world beauty of the mansion, it’s magical. I’ve never been someone to dream or fantasize or even use the word magical. I never needed to because there was never any reason. It was a waste of time. I knew where my story would lead me, and it didn’t end happily ever after.
Since Greier, I’m writing my own.
By our seventh dance, I’m winded and drunk on moonlight and magnolias. When a server passes by, he orders a bourbon for him and some frilly virgin shit for me from the bar. A group of guests seem to gravitate around us, thanking Greier for inviting them, gushing about how wonderful everything is. While they command his attention, a man in a chilling mask commands mine, a bird face with a long sharp beak. He watches us from across the room, through the crowd. When he realizes I’ve noticed him, he holds my gaze through the moving guests. For a second? A minute? An hour? Time feels endless.
Someone bumps into me, interrupting our staring game. It’s a woman, a drunk woman. She giggles out an apology. I gently wave my hand as if to say “it’s fine.” When I glance back, the man with the terrifying bird mask is gone. But the chill he gave me lingers.
I place my attention where it belongs, slipping out of the sense of dread like a dress. Once we have our drinks, we circulate the party. Greier introduces me to important people and family friends. Some being Southern senators. I’m glad I’m wearing a mask—and he doesn’t use my full name. He simply uses his nickname for me, “Rae.” The wealthy know other wealthy people. And, when it comes to politics, everyone knows everyone…and everything. Mrs. LeBlanc and my mother proudly bragged about the caliber of guests invited to the wedding every chance they got, to anyone who would listen. That’s what our wedding was about after all, networking, social-climbing, expanding and merging empires. I’m sure half these partygoers watched me declare my undying love and dedication to a man I barely knew.
Throughout the evening, I notice the man with the bird mask circling us, pretending to engage with others to throw me off. It makes me anxious, but since Greier is with me at all times, I brush the uneasiness away with a mental sweep of my hand.
Suddenly, someone knocks into me, shoving me into Greier. It takes me a moment to catch my bearings and straighten myself out. When I’m no longer disoriented, I search the crowd around me. But whoever it was seems to have evaporated. Maybe they didn’t even know they bumped into me. I didn’t hear anyone apologize or acknowledge they did it like every other person that’s done it tonight. It is a packed room. It was an accident.
“Are you alright?” Grey asks over the music and voices.
“Yeah.” I take a draw from my mocktail and then smile at him. “Never better.”
A few minutes later, somewhere around one a.m., it’s a whole other story. A tsunami of nausea, like when you drink too much, too quickly, slams into me. My vision blurs in and out, and I’m unnaturally exhausted. Couldn’t be alcohol. I haven’t had any all night. Must be the pregnancy wearing on me.
Greier notices something’s off kilter because he checks on me again. “You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m actually not feeling very well. I think I should lay down.” I rest a hand against my forehead when the room dances around me. “Will you help me upstairs?”
“Of course,” he says with concern.
He positions a guiding hand on my back and steers me through the hoard of drunk zombies, pushing people aside if they don’t move when asked. My feet form into lead with every step I take, until it’s a challenge to merely shuffle them. He senses me lagging and lifts me into his arms, carrying me up the stairs to the bedroom. He lies me in the bed without taking off my dress or unpinning my hair but removes my mask, setting it on the bedside table. My lids shut over from the unbearable throbbing in my brain, my eyesight too sensitive, even in the dark room. The kind of dark you only experience in the middle of nowhere.
Sleep drags me into its black waters like an alligator would its prey. I flounder to keep my head above the surface but repeatedly sink under. Too weak to fight it anymore, I willingly drown in the gentle tides of oblivion.