[The Bellamy mansion, France, 1935]
"Poison ivy? You have to stop making up these stories, Evie. I'm sure it's only a heat rash," Julia says as she generously lathers aloe vera onto her daughter's skin.
"I'm not lying, Maman! I swear she really did it," claims the five-year-old girl. Her skin has erupted, scarlet in color, after lying on the grass.
"How could she do this without inflicting the same on herself? Hm?" The mother refuses to believe her most beloved child would even conjure the idea.
"I don't know! But she laughed at me when I cried." Evelyn winces under her breath as the pain's too overwhelming for a delicate flower like her.
"Alright, let's ask her, shall we?" Julia rises from the Victorian chaise lounge that was gifted by her husband's acquaintance.
Evelyn scoffs, "She will only lie."
"Your sister never lies!" Julia raises her voice as though it's crucial for her to defend Delphine. Upon seeing her daughter's befuddlement, she herself finds the reaction peculiar. "You shouldn't say that about your sister..." she retracts her claws.
In utter confusion, Evelyn follows her mother into the garden, where Delphine is plucking a pink-petalled daisy from the grass she's ensconced on.
"Ma bichette, did you do this?" Julia questions her eldest daughter. Her hand carelessly gripping Evelyn's inflamed arm, disregarding the faint whimpering from the child.
Delphine merely shakes her head, unbothered. "No, Maman," she says, returning her eyes to the flower.
Julia raises a brow at Evelyn, asking what other objection she has.
"You're lying! You're covering it with the blanket!" The younger girl lifts the said picnic blanket, revealing scattered leaves of green poison ivy.
"Do you have any damning evidence of that?" Delphine utters the word her father used on the phone some other day.
Evelyn parts her mouth, ready to retaliate, when her mother strikes her across the face — and it's not the namby-pamby kind.
"I ought to wash your mouth with soap," Julia grimly says under her breath.
When Evelyn looks up to lay her eyes on the woman, she already knew the face would be prejudicious. "Maman, what would I gain from lying?" Tears accumulate in her eyes, the rash becomes fiery by the second, and her throat closes up.
Then her savior enters the garden from the front yard, a briefcase in his hand. "Thought I heard your voice. What's going on?" He interrogates Julia from afar, puzzled by the ongoing scene.
"Your daughter is lying again," the woman truculently claims, glaring at the weeping child.
Maurice furrows his eyebrows and shifts his attention towards Evelyn who has her hands pressed against her wet eyes. "What happened, Evie?" He lays a knee on the grass to be at the same level as her.
"I didn't lie, Papa." The girl's voice muffled as she refuses to take her hands off her face.
Maurice looks at his wife with resentment; which irks and prompts her to go inside with the other child. He picks Evelyn up with ease to bring her to a nearby seat. "D'accord, tell me what happened," he says.
They ensconce themselves on a bench that stands in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slips over the polished leaves, painting their cheeks with artificial freckles.
"Maman doesn't love me." Evelyn sniffles through her words.
Her father heaves a sigh, reaching for her scarlet cheek. "Don't say that..." He caresses it to soothe the stinging pain.
"She hates me!" She exclaims, swatting the hand from her salty face.
"I know you are angry, but you mustn't stoop to her level."
Maurice's words leave her perplexed; she expected him to convince her that Julia indeed loves her, instead he insinuates a kind of acknowledgment of her hatred.
"Now, let me see that arm of yours." He opens his palm and she lays her forearm there, and he proceeds to examine the severity of the rash. "Ouch. Does it itch?"
Evelyn nods in response, unable to express her pain through words.
"You still won't tell me what happened?" He looks deep into her eyes; a very gentle coercion.
Little Evie thinks to herself, with a mind aware of only some wickedness in the world, what trouble she'd in if she sings like a canary. "There was poison ivy under my blanket," she relents, pointing at the object.
Maurice turns his lip inward and bites them gently, putting the pieces together by himself. "I will talk to Delphine about it," he decisively remarks.
She furiously shakes her head, "Maman will know I complained to you." Her eyes are filmed over with tears.
The man's heart sinks when he realizes his daughter does not trust the woman he loves. "Fine, Evie, fine. Let's just go to the doctor's office," he persuades, getting on his tired feet.
"But it's just a rash..." Evelyn chooses to believe what her mother said; perhaps she does know better than a five-year-old girl.
Maurice wearily sighs and squats down. "It itches, doesn't it?" He gently asks.
"Yes..."
"That is dermatitis. Do you want boils on your skin?" The man teasingly pokes the skin on Evelyn's good arm.
"No!"
The child's unbroken youthful voice leaves a smile on her father's face; he has never been more in love with the life he has, albeit utterly flawed.
"Then you must listen to me, because...?" Maurice trails off, waiting for his daughter's participation, but she remains clueless. "Because I will always look out for you, Evie."
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings.
This moment, without a doubt, will forever be embedded into Maurice's mind; when all he wants to be is a good father, not only to his eldest but his youngest — whether he will succeed remains to be seen.
[The Diner, June 1951]
Evelyn groaned as she laid her eyes on the diner's washroom mirror, her reflection returned the wrathful stare she was holding. She could see her knowing friend, Wendy, visibly observing her through the object.
"Better?" The friend asked, lighting up a cigarette.
Evelyn splashed cold water from the sink onto her face, disregarding her makeup. When she was done, her emerald eyes were bloodshot and her hands tired from gripping the sink. "Hell of a lot better if you give me that damn cig." She outstretched a weary arm with two lonely fingers awaiting the sacred stick.
Wendy did not comply with her request, unfazed by it.
"Jesus, talking about being stingy!" She cried out as she goes through her lucite handbag for a Lucky Strike.
Wendy stepped closer and snatched the pack of cigarettes from her. "You don't need cigarettes, Evelyn. You need to talk about it to someone."
"Hey!" Evelyn exclaimed in frustration, yet she didn't get on her tiptoes, knowing the girl had a point.
"You can't let your father get in the way of your life. You said you were going to see a picture with Paul, right? So, go." The tone of Wendy's voice starkly shifted; her phase of being a girl who worries about gaining a pound seemed like a hundred years ago.
"I should've kept my mouth shut," Evelyn meekly said.
But Wendy thought otherwise, "You did the right thing. Who cares if he's hurt? Should've thought of that before ruining your life." She flicked the ashes off her cigarette into the ceramic sink.
Evelyn aggressively tied her hair back, sniffling and mumbling in French — nothing that the other girl could understand albeit they came from the same place.
"You got about two years of school left before Joe Kennedy makes money off of you," Wendy added fuel to the crackling fire.
Evelyn curtly hushed her up, and with that, the washroom fell silent. She heaved a sigh and gestured to her that she was ready to leave. Her cigarette pack was returned to her as Wendy left to give her some space to work with.
"You did the right thing, Eve."
She flinched when the reassuring voice inside her head wasn't hers, but Bobby's; the stern but comforting intonation couldn't be confused for someone else's as it was far too familiar. It almost broke her apart when it sounded unbelievably present. But the gloomy green tiles on the floor and walls emphasized further how alone she was — and not only in the washroom. Paul is great, she thought, but he doesn't know me the way Bobby does.
"Are you okay?" Surely enough Paul had a line of inquiry when Evelyn approached their table. She merely nodded but didn't sit down, and he caught the subtle hint. "Right, well. We need to get going, the show's about to start." He took a glance at his watch without noticing the time.
"Take care, you two!" Sally, the Southern one, tried her best to sound natural.
"See ya," Pete added, saluting the couple with two fingers.
Wendy remained motionless, seemingly more upset than Evelyn.
As the two stepped out of the diner, Paul coolly put on his sunglasses while watching his sweetheart tying a chiffon scarf on her hair. "Hey, we don't have to see the picture if you're not feeling well," he said, unaware of the terrible repercussions.
"Who said I'm not feeling well?" Evelyn unexpectedly took offense. She knew she was being difficult, but it seemed impossible for her not to when everyone around pitied her for having to make grown decisions.
"Well, you were in the washroom for some time..." Paul kept saying the wrong thing because, sometimes, men do that.
"I just... needed some time alone. Wendy helped a lot, though." Evelyn didn't believe the things that came out of her mouth; it was an oversimplification of how she felt because no matter how hard she tried, she knew only one man could understand her.
Paul ambled for Evelyn's Cadillac, and she followed suit. "I believe you did the right thing," He said.
She swiftly turned to look at him as he uttered the same exact words she heard in the washroom. "You do?"
"Yeah. Sometimes you have to be honest with your family, even if it hurts them." Paul shrugged, he had his fair share of familial issues; his father wasn't too keen on his decision to be a thespian, not getting his hands dirty like the rest of the men in his family.
"When you're right, you're right." Evelyn settled down on the sage green leather seat when her lover chivalrously opened the door.
Maurice's face was pressed hard against the wooden counter; there was a pool of drool under his opened mouth as he was knocked out by the seventh glass of Boulevardier.
The bartender noticed he had been getting looks from other patrons when Maurice's snoring had gotten a bit louder. "Hey! Get up, mon ami." He smacked the old man's shoulder with considerable force to wake him up — he knew how much strength was needed due to experience.
"Huh, quoi?" Maurice blurted out, swallowing his spit a few times before looking around. His friend was gone. The enigmatic boho hobo had left without sputtering her name even once in their conversation. With his bloodshot eyes, he spoke up, "Hey, Mac, pour me some vodka."
The bartender was surprised he could still speak English following the afternoon he had. "You sure?"
"Do your fucking job..." Maurice replied.
And just like that, the bartender's sympathy quickly vanished; he poured the strongest vodka he possessed and served it. Maurice practically snatched it from his hand and downed it with little to no problem. He was impressed and gained a little respect for the drunkard.
The Frenchman outstretched his arm, tugging the sleeve of his jacket, and once his gaze was fixed on his wrist, he realized something was amiss. His time in Paris slum told him to check his pocket, so he did, and his heart sank like the RMS Titanic. "Ah, putain de merde. I've been robbed!" His exclamation caught the attention of the barman, and everybody who knew all too well what had occurred. "Hey, I was robbed in your bar!" He slammed his the palm of his hand against the counter.
"How's that my problem?" Answered the bartender as he took his hand off the cloth he was using.
"The... the woman!" An epiphany hit Maurice once the vodka cleared his head. "The woman in the queer dress! She stole all my things!"
The barman and some regulars in there began chortling as if there was some kind of inside joke amongst them.
One person even clinked his beer next to Maurice's glass, "Cheers, been there..." He even winked at him; taunting him with a sense of camaraderie.
"That's Delilah for ya," The barman added.
"Delilah?" Maurice retook his seat, curious of her story.
"Every local knows Delilah will rob you blind the moment you take your eyes off her!" The previous regular chimed in on their conversation.
Maurice turned towards him. "Because she's a gypsy?" He asked.
The stranger scoffed and shook his head in amusement.
"She's not a gypsy. She's a con artist." The bartender poured some water into Maurice's empty glass coated with vodka. "So, how are you gonna pay for your drinks?" He finally addressed the elephant in the room.
When Maurice fell silent, and the barman knew he had to be a pawnbroker for the day. "Alright, give me your car keys. There's no way she took it; she can't drive for shit." His arms were akimbo like an old lady as he waited for the customer to bring out his keys.
The drive to the movie theater was quiet through and through; Paul couldn't conjure a topic that would make Evelyn smile out of thin air — he tried but his effort was met by feigned chuckling.
She was deep in her thoughts, mulling over what her father asked: how long was she going to keep running? From her past, her home, and her lover who longingly awaited her in Hyannis Port. It all seemed unpleasantly overbearing for a twenty-one-year-old to navigate through.
"Evelyn, isn't that your father?!" Paul slammed on the brake pedal, causing the woman to lunge forward, ultimately snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Jesus, Paul!" She hit him on the arm, furious with his shenanigan.
"Look!" He pointed at an older man sitting on a bench outside the theater they were heading to.
Evelyn slid her cat-eye sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, and in disbelief, cried out, "Ah, merde..."
Paul leaped out of the convertible for Maurice, faster than his own daughter who was still contemplating whether to check on him or not.
"Hey, Mr. Bellamy, are you alright?" He laid a hand on the man's shoulder, shaking him out of his drunken stupor.
"Huh? Je vous connais?" Maurice squinted when the sun hit him in the eye.
"Uh... Evelyn, he was saying something in French!" Paul gladly pulled his girlfriend into view, hoping for her assistance.
"Papa," Evelyn sternly called. "Tu bien?"
A smile tugged on Maurice's lips when he recognized the voice; it was music to his ears. "Bien sur, ma fille! Bien sur..." He lied through his teeth; nothing was good for him — he was robbed by a woman he thought could be his new Zelda.
"You're fucking drunk?" Evelyn could feel her blood boiling up in the sun. "You stopped drinking sixteen years ago, you imbécile!" She wanted to hit him, to throw something in his direction the way he did to her mother back in their Paris apartment.
"Evelyn, calm down," Paul whispered as he pulled the raged woman closer to him.
"This son of a bitch thinks the world is so unfair to him, and for what? For giving him a second chance at the life he's throwing away?!" She couldn't restrain the tears from falling on the ground. She almost buckled under the pressure when she realized it was her who broke her father's sober streak.
Paul stroked her arm, holding her up, while smiling reassuringly at the passersby. "You need help, sir?" He asked Maurice.
"I don't even know where he's staying," Evelyn said, shimmying herself out of Paul's grip. It was clear that they weren't in a movie, but a soap opera.
Paul proceeded to check Maurice's pockets for information, but there was nothing — not even a pack of cigs. "Nothing. No hotel key, either. He didn't think of staying in Cambridge."
Evelyn had to hold herself back from hurting her father; from killing him the way he did her. "Did you really think I leaving with you?"
Her father inhaled deeply in his groggy state. "Ta mère..." he slurred, "she's waiting."
She released her clenched hands. The way he spoke of her mother seemed too genuine, as though she was truly affected by her rebellious act.
"As a matter of fact... he's got nothing on him," Paul noted after he finished frisking Maurice.
"What?" Evelyn tilted her head in utter confusion.
"I think he got mugged?"
"What the hell, Pa?" She stepped closer to Maurice, placing a hand underneath his chin and lifting his face to check for injuries.
"We gotta take him home, hon," Paul said, folding his arms across his chest as he analyze just how many drinks Maurice had.
"If you think we ought to, then I guess we ought," she answered, vexed and bothered, but grateful no bar fight occurred — at least not a physical one.
"Alright, open the door," Paul said, using his eyes to point at the backseat. Maurice's drunken weight was getting slightly unbearable even for thewy knees like his.
"I can't believe you'd do this to Ma!" Evelyn reprimanded her father while carrying out Paul's request. Her fury was acknowledged by Maurice, but he exercised his right to remain silence.
"It'll be fine," Paul absently added after settling the old man in the backseat.
Evelyn heaved a sigh — that was all she'd been doing in her life; figure things out, and no matter what kind of approach she took, things always backfired.
Halfway through the drive to his temporary home, Maurice slurred some words that none of them could understand, like a hymn only some would recognize. Evelyn laid a serious gaze through the rearview mirror; his words were getting under her skin, and it didn't help that he was still slurring.
"What's he saying?" Paul inquired while avoiding a pothole on the road.
"He's asking me not to leave him alone." Evelyn's nonchalance only told him that it'd be better if he wasn't present.
"God knows how long he was loitering around," He quipped in an attempt to ease the tension.
"Considering that he's now asleep... I'd say hours." She took her eyes off her father, wondering when was the last time the guest room was dusted.
"Ope, careful!" Paul exclaimed when Maurice almost collapsed at the entrance of his home.
While the man struggled with her father, Evelyn locked the door behind them when a tall Dalmatian sprinted in her direction, panting loudly. "Sit, Bastille!" She ordered, looking down at her rescue dog — she only picked him for his blue and brown eyes.
"Un chien!" Maurice laughed to himself upon setting his eyes on Bastille; it had been a while since he'd seen a dog.
"Yep, that's a dog, alright," Paul replied, opening the door to the guest room and ushering the man in.
"Just throw him on the bed!" Evelyn chimed in; it was what her father deserved for what he put her through.
"There you go, old man..." Paul ignored her words and gently laid Maurice on the mattress, killing him with something his daughter didn't have for him — kindness.
"I'll take care of him," said Evelyn as she entered the room, untying the silky scarf she was wearing and tucking it inside her pants pocket.
"You sure you don't need me around?" Paul asked out of niceties; nobody wants to be around a man who's drunk in his pain.
"I can handle him. I've been handling him." She remembered the time in Paris slum when she'd sober Maurice up if people were visiting.
"Alright, hon." Paul left to hang out with Bastille in the living room.
"Damn it, Pa!" Evelyn proceeded to take off Maurice's shoes, jacket, and hat like a good daughter — except she did it so the boozy scent wouldn't stick on the bedsheet. "Why are you doing this to me?" She wiped the single drop of sweat on her forehead, one drop too many wasted on her father.
"Evie..." Maurice called out in a groggy tone just as his daughter was exiting the room.
"What?" She halted but did not bother to turn and face him.
"Je t'aime beaucoup, ma fille..." The father said the words he should've uttered a long time ago.
She felt a pang of guilt — her professor had been teaching her more about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, himself quiet a drunk, and one of his quotes stood out the most in that moment: a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.
"I remember when your mother birthed you... I cried when you looked at me with your émeraudes." Maurice spoke of her emeralds — the ones that saw every little thing; her mother's glamour, her father's charisma, and her sister from when she was a child prodigy to a child dying in a Victorian manner.
"Go to sleep, Pa..." was all the woman could say. She shut the door with a heavy heart; it was unlike her to abandon a person in desperate need of help.
Once Evelyn was calm and collected, she entered the living room with a weak smile across her face. "I'm sorry about him," She said to Paul who was sitting on the couch with their dog on his lap.
"When was the last time this happened?" He asked, scratching behind Bastille's spotty ear.
"After Delphine died, he got fired. That was the last straw, I guess." Evelyn plopped herself on the seat beside him. She wasn't too keen on reminiscing the past, but when her lover wrapped his arm around her, she became unafraid. "But I don't hate him— I can't hate him." It was impossible for someone as gentle as her to hate someone, much less her own father.
Paul shifted in his seat so he'd be facing her. "I think he really missed you," he said.
"They all miss you when you're gone..." she sounded bitter because she wanted to be. She, however, did not anticipate Maurice caring enough to go as far as chasing after her.
"He's shit-faced in broad daylight after you pushed him away. Don't you see it?" Paul reached for his lover's hands. "He can't live without you. You're loved, Eve."
His words resonated with her. She hadn't felt truly loved in what felt like an eternity; Paul tried to give more than love, but it just wasn't the same. It wasn't the kind of love she was used to; the painful yet addictive kind. She ran her fingers through her brunette hair, gripping some locks, "Sometimes I'm glad Delphine's dead, at least she's in heaven and not in this hell they created."
The look of sympathy from Paul only made it worse, she hated how sadness was often caused by her. "Enough," he said, giving her a gentle squeeze on the hand. "Whether you decide to go home or not... I'll be here for you."
It warmed her heart, mending it even, but she had made the decision to return to Hyannis Port the moment she saw Maurice on that sidewalk. "Well, alright, then. I'll go," she sing-songed the words to lighten the mood. "I'm just gonna have to deal with Bobby."
The warm smile on Paul's face dropped; he'd completely forgotten about the old lover waiting for her back home. "Well, isn't he married? Surely he's forgotten what you two had."
And there was silence as they tacitly disagreed with one another.
"The last time we talked was... half a year ago. And he told me that his child is coming this July," Evelyn answered, reassuring both of them that no funny business would be happening with Ethel almost bursting.
"He'll have a new responsibility," Paul added, smiling as he tried not to overthink it.
"Right. And he knows about you!" She said that, but she didn't forget how reckless she and Bobby were when Mike Vogel was still in the picture.
"Exactly, darling... no need to overthink it." Paul caressed her face like a gentle poet underneath the shade of a tree.
She laid her head on her man's shoulder, even closing her eyes to immerse herself in the moment. But every time she began to love her life, her old lover would appear in her headspace; telling her that he never left, that he awaits her — taunting her, almost.
"I'm cooking dinner. How does spaghetti sound?" She abruptly asked, springing out of her seat.
"Uh, perfect. Sounds good," Paul replied with a look of confusion on his face — it was a nice flowery moment they were having, something that rarely occurred, but she did not appreciate it as much as he did.
She nodded and whistled for the dog. "Come, Bastille!" She began walking, and surely enough, the Dalmatian was following her like a loyal servant into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Evelyn had her hands gripping tightly onto another sink as she gagged on her breakfast; not because it was bad, but because her panic attack that disappeared a year ago (the last time remarkably being on Bobby's wedding night) was making its comeback. Before she could throw up and make unpleasant noises, she reached into her pocket, retrieving a small pharmaceutical bottle — benzedrine: a magic pill that will calm your nerves and allows you to execute your tasks, as her friend Sally O'Hara pitched. She was careful with the dosage, of course, taking only two per day.
With the pill on her tongue, Evelyn swallowed it dry. "This ought to calm you down..." Her own whisper helped to reassure her that the pill wasn't as bad as the nosy healthy people had been saying.
"Woof!" Bastille barked unprompted, catching his owner's divided attention.
"Yes, I know. It's been a rough day, OK?" She said in a quiet voice, knowing someone could hear her in the small house. And almost immediately, the pill did its magic and the woman felt a hell of a lot better. So with a sigh of relief, she reached into the cabinet for a pot to soak the pasta in.
About half an hour later, Paul came into the kitchen thinking he'd heard music playing, but upon further investigation, he realized it came from the guest room.
"He's been listening to that on repeat," said Evelyn, making a cup of coffee the way Maurice liked it.
"I see that he's a Sinatra fan as well." Paul teasingly winked at his woman, and she simply rolled her eyes as she walked to the tuneful room.
Once she opened the door, Sinatra's voice was louder and clearer, but Maurice's head didn't seem to clear up enough as he was sitting with his face in his hands.
"Papa," She called, "I made coffee." The warm cup was set on the wooden nightstand. "There's also food if you're hungry." She lifted the stylus off the record, abruptly halting the music.
The mood became depressive and lonesome without Sinatra, as both of them awaited the other person to speak.
"Which bar did you go to?" Asked the girl, breaking her silence while the man only broke her heart by remaining obdurate. "Listen, I know they took your wallet and keys. Tell me the name so we can go and get it." She crossed her arms, asserting dominance — it was her house.
"Why? So you can kick me out? You hate me, don't you?" Maurice ultimately blurted out, far more bitter than the vodka he had at the bar. He hoisted his head up only to see a neutral expression pasted on his daughter's face; completely unaffected by what he had to say.
"Cavanagh's bar—and they didn't take my wallet, just the car key." There was noticeable disgruntlement in his tone.
Evelyn furrowed her brows in confusion, exclaiming, "What gives?" She ensconced herself on the bed, right beside the quiet man. "I'll tell Paul," she sighed.
He was ready to be berated, but when they met eyes, she gave him the warmest hug he had received in years.
"Would I take you into my house if I hate you?" She uttered with furrowed brows and all, it was absolute forgiveness. When Maurice couldn't muster the courage to hug back, she let go of him but firmly grabbed onto his shoulders. "I love you, Pa," she sternly emphasized.
"I find that hard to believe." Maurice picked up the dagger he'd put in Evelyn and stabbed her in the chest once more.
"How so?" She asked, enduring the fatal injury.
"I tormented everyone."
It evoked a burst of laughter from her; the loud, hurtful kind. "You did. Many times!" She gleefully exclaimed while nodding, "and it pains me to think about it. But, Pa, what kind of daughter would I be if I neglect my father?"
Tears welled up in Maurice's olive green eyes, he did nothing to deserve her forgiveness and it killed him each time he think of the time he betrayed her (for Joe's money which took less than a month to go through) — he blindly neglected the fact that his daughter simply outlived each cent he'd earned and will earn.
"I'll go home." The words casually escaped Evelyn's lips, like it wasn't a life-changing decision to make.
"You will?" Maurice almost called her out on being naive; that she should be more punitive to him.
But when Evelyn nodded with deep sincerity, the teardrop that was hanging on the corner of his eye fell rather quickly.
"Merci, Evie!" It was like he was recharged with pure energy. He went for another hug, and that time his daughter was the stiff one.
"Under one condition," She interjected. "Don't interfere with my life ever again."
He wordlessly nodded in agreement.
"Once was enough," she added.
"Je sais, ma chérie."
Evelyn stood up to flip the gramophone record, playing more Sinatra from his early years.
"Evelyn?" Paul interrupted from the doorway. "You got a place?"
"Right, it's, uh... Cavanagh's." She needed a moment to remember the name of the bar as she wondered how long he had been standing there.
"Okay, I'll ask Courtney to help with the car," he said, and that answered her question — he knew about the car being pawned without needing to mention it.
"Wait, here." She pulled some loose cash out of her pocket, handing it to him. "Use that— for his drinks."
He raised his brows at the amount of cash she kept close to her. "Copy that."
"Thank you, dear." She gave him a quick wink before sending him away, a little tradition between the couple for luck.
Maurice rubbed his hand against his face in shame. "He's... very kind."
His daughter spun around, smiling with excitement underneath the angsty facade. "Yes, because he's not a phony." She bit back, referring to the foolish word he had used against Paul.
After the uncomfortable silence, he joined her at standing by the window and staring at the goldfinches ambling the backyard ground.
"I'm sorry for what I said," he spoke up, receiving a soft smile from his daughter. "It wasn't like me at all— I should be happy for you! Not vexed. You went through a lot... happiness is what you deserve." His tone was sober and heartfelt, it could be a wonderful ending to the tumultuous episode of their relationship — perhaps the hundred thousand check no longer meant anything to either of them.
"I am happy, Pa. More, now that you understood." Evelyn casually slipped her hand into her pocket but was blocked from going further by the pill bottle.
"I won't interfere with your life. I'll just..." Maurice shrugged. "...look out for you?"
The uncertainty in his words displayed empathy towards Evelyn's feelings, and she was grateful for how the day was ending — she could not have foreseen it, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless. "As you always have..." She leaned forward to whisper those words, but something else caught his attention.
"Since this." He amusingly poked the faded scar on her upper arm.
And it broke her heart a little; to be reminded of Delphine's sin in the tranquility, but she shook it off. "Come on, let's get some food in you, mon vieux!"
Maurice humorously gasped at being called old, but nothing shocked him more than his daughter being able to cook for herself — his little girl was no longer little.
In the compact but cozy dining room, Evelyn pulled a chair at the head of the table for Maurice — Paul wouldn't mind, she thought. The pasta no longer retained its warmth, so she boiled it once again just for a minute or two. When the meal was done, she served it with extra meatballs as Maurice often requested to his wife.
The man couldn't be more excited to see food in front of his face; the pancakes he consumed at his house were still in his system, but not in the way he'd like to think.
"Bon appetite, Pa." Evelyn seated herself beside the patriarch who had already begun devouring, and she couldn't help but smile as she realized it had been more than three hundred and sixty-five days since they ate together.
They dined in serenity; freedom from prejudice and vengeance. That was the case until Evelyn scared herself with the Hyannis Port business — the illicit affairs she left behind. She had managed to run from them all, the pain, the suffering, but they lustily cursed her name from afar that it almost deafened her.
"So... how are things at home?" She asked, although her father had already informed her of the air of decrepitude that surrounded the compound.
"People have been talking about Bobby and Ethel. You know their child is supposedly coming next month?" Maurice changed the topic, giving Evelyn a leeway to talk about her old lover.
The woman's heart skipped a beat upon hearing the man's name being uttered aloud — it was almost like a forbidden word. "Yes, he's going to be a father. It seems like only yesterday we were kids; sneaking alcohol and stuff..." she trailed off in a quiet tone.
"Sneaking what?" Maurice halted his chewing, a stern look pasted on his weary face.
"Did I say alcohol? I meant cigarettes," she quipped, playing innocent for the sake of bonding.
He shook his head in amusement, "Time flies."
The girl nodded, the past wasn't easy to let go of either. "Ain't that the truth," she whispered to the red spaghetti twirled around her fork.
"Evelyn, I'm home!" Paul loudly exclaimed as he entered the house, like George Bailey from that one movie.
"In here," Evelyn called out.
A moment later, he stepped into view with Courtney, the neighbor.
"Oh, hi, Courtney!" Evelyn cheerily greeted him. Funny enough she had shared some classes with the man — though he was pursuing medicine, not politics.
"Courtney wants a beer," Paul added before heading to the kitchen.
"Hey, Evelyn. Hope you don't mind?" Courtney reached across the table and shook hands with Evelyn; extremely formal as he was told by Paul that her father was home.
The woman scoffed. "Not at all. It's a small thank you for helping with the car..."
"No problem, friend." He chuckled lightly.
"Here you go, Courtney." Paul handed him the freezing cold beer that was already starting to melt from the summer heat.
"Thanks, man. See ya," Courtney said, politely grinning at Maurice so he wouldn't feel excluded, then left in a breeze.
"Have a good night, bud!" Paul waved with a beer in hand, before immediately remembering why he was gone. "So, get this!" He excitedly sat beside Maurice, tapping him on the shoulder like a couple of old friends. "We went to the bar and got your car. But..." a car key was put on the table along with a wallet. "The bartender said Delilah returned your wallet?"
"She did?" Maurice could kiss the wallet if it wasn't for the two people with him.
"Yeah, I guess the thief had a change of mind," Paul answered, fixing himself a plate of cold spaghetti.
"She didn't even take anything," the older man said while going through his wallet, and he remained quiet when he noticed a little scrap of paper tucked in between some untouched cash. "Right, uh, thank you, garçon."
Paul impishly grinned, glancing at Evelyn as if to flaunt the approval given by Maurice. "You're welcome. Uh, I haven't properly introduced myself..." He lent a hand and Maurice promptly shook it.
Evelyn proceeded to roll her eyes at the jester who just happened to be her lover.
"Paul Newman, I've been with your daughter for about a year now."
The blue eyes were sincere, and Maurice could see that — they might have been the same shade as Bobby's, but these ones weren't hiding anything from him. "Enchanté, Paul." He nodded in approval.
"Toi aussi, Monsieur..." Paul tried to humor Maurice with his terrible French, and it surprisingly worked as he received a small chuckle from him.
"What do you do, Paul?" The old man asked, putting aside the empty plate for Evelyn to stack on top of hers.
"I'm an actor— well, a thespian. But I'm on a hiatus," he answered truthfully.
"Why's that?"
He shifted his eyes from Maurice to Evelyn, who wasn't too focused on the conversation. "Well, because I wanted to be with her... while she's studying." He beamed just looking at the love of his life.
"Then you bought a house for you and my daughter?" Maurice could see very well that Paul was smitten, and in a way, he was worried — about Hyannis Port, about Bobby, and about Evelyn — like father, like daughter.
Paul shook his head as if to clear it. "No, it's a rental." The lovey-dovey thoughts were persistent whenever he laid eyes on Evelyn, thus he was relieved when she grabbed the plates and left for the kitchen.
"And nobody bats an eye about you two?" Maurice wasn't being a prude (he couldn't, he was French!) but he was worried what others might think.
"There were some old-timers who mauled us for living under the same roof, but we just lied about being engaged to marry." Paul raised his shoulders in a shrug.
"Clever," Maurice noted with a sly smile.
The younger man shifted uncomfortably in his cushioned chair. "So, when are you leaving for Hyannis?"
Maurice was quick with his answer, "Tomorrow."
It evoked a sort of harrowing feeling in Paul as he think of the fact that Evelyn's former lover was their Congressman's brother.
"I'll start packing later." Maurice sipped his drink.
Evelyn appeared out of nowhere behind the two men.
"Me, too," Paul chimed in, receiving a lackluster look from Maurice; seemingly to disapprove of their plan.
A spotted dog sprinted into the kitchen with some unreal energy they could only wish to have.
"So the dog's real... I thought I was hallucinating," Maurice quipped as he called for the dog.
"C'est Bastille. We adopted him four months ago... how big he's gotten." Evelyn was smiling ear to ear like a proud mother.
"Come here, boy!" Maurice threw a meatball into the air and Bastille unfailingly leaped to bite it. "Good?" He asked while petting him and received a bark in response.
"Why did we never own a dog? Or any pet, in general?" Evelyn asked, laying a hand on her father's shoulder.
It surprised Maurice at how affectionate she was becoming, but he couldn't complain — God knows he needed it. "Your mother. She believes pets are burdensome." He laughed as he reminisced the olden days when Delphine wanted a pet, and Julia gave her a chicken egg and told her a baby chick would hatch when it was ready — it never did, of course, as it was store-bought.
"I don't think Bastille has ever been to the beach. Bet he's gonna love it," Paul joined in on the conversation just as it was about to end.
"Well, I'm hitting the hay. You kids better be up and ready by six." Maurice stood up with the help of the table as his head was still spinning from all the alcohol in his system.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n." Paul saluted him while picking Bastille up, ready to put him in the crate.
"Bonne nuit, Pa." Evelyn casually blew a kiss in Maurice's direction, European style.
Evelyn exited the bathroom with a freshened face and a sparkly set of teeth. As she was walking back to her bedroom, she heard two familiar voices in the guest room and smiled when she realized it was Paul trying to offer Maurice clean pajamas for the night. She left them alone to have a conversation without her supervision.
Soon enough, Paul joined her in their bed, completely exhausted. "Thank God, my clothes fit your father," He said through a yawn. "He's a good man, really."
She softly snorted upon hearing the ludicrous words — good wasn't how she'd describe him; flawed would be more accurate.
"After what he's been through, he ought to," She remarked somewhat bitterly.
"What do you mean?" Paul propped his head up to face her.
"He came from a good family; built a great life, had a great wife and great kids. When one tragic thing happened, he acted like it was the end of the world." She let it all out in a volcanic burst after a whole day of being forgiving. "And that whole thing with Joe and Skakel... beyond treacherous!"
Her lover could see the resentment in her eyes, they were filled with poison and rage — too much for the average person to bear. But nothing about Evelyn Bellamy was average; she was the epitome of perfection, in every way possible, and many would attest.
"It was... but if it wasn't for that, I'd never have met you," Paul said, twirling a lock of long silky hair between his two fingers.
"I guess I should let bygones be bygones..." she let out a sigh and slid under the cover, cocooning herself.
"Hey, I'm with you no matter what," he whispered gently as she pulled him into an embrace. He accepted his fate of being her pillow for the night.
"Je sais, mon amour... j'ai toujours su depuis le tout début..." She murmured in a somnolent tone that Paul couldn't make out even a single word.
"I love you, too." He kissed the forehead in front of him, wondering if he could get any luckier than this.
Maurice lay underneath a cozy knitted blanket in his new bed, his thumb and forefinger were messing about a piece of paper the size of the matchbook he'd swiped from the bar.
"Delilah... Delilah..." He mumbled while unwinding with an arm beneath his head — Sinatra was still playing at a low volume in the room.
He laid the paper scrap on his stomach while his left hand reached for the wallet on the nightstand. After looking at the note once more, he shoved it back into the leathery object and plopped it on the wooden table.
"Merde, my fucking head..."
Unwittingly, the man sat up on the edge of his bed, ready to call the number he'd memorized. His finger deftly rotated the wheel to dial the mysterious woman's digits.
And when there was a sound of a handset being picked up, he cleverly said, "Hey there, Delilah." Thinking it'd take her by surprise that he actually called.
"Ah, salut, Frenchie!" She was quick-witted as well, perhaps even more than him.
"It's Maurice. And hey, how come you have a telephone if you're homeless?" There were about a million questions in his head, but the most irrelevant one claimed its victory.
"What, you think we don't have a camp?" Delilah cattily asked back.
"Oh, I see..." he then wondered what had become of his life that he was talking to a homeless woman — how lonesome, it had become.
"Why did you return my wallet?" He caught himself behaving like a teenage girl when he was fidgeting with the telephone's wire.
"I felt like it." Delilah's voice was soothing, and Julia's was nothing like it — they couldn't compare.
"It's that simple?"
"After you almost drank yourself to death... you murmured something." She tried her best to remember, but it was impossible as she herself had one too many free drinks.
Maurice began sweating bullets — what if he had said something incriminating about himself? Even worse if he had aired out the dirty laundry on his business partners.
Before he could pass out from panicking, Delilah assured him. "You said some things about your daughter... you're clearly in a bad place. I couldn't have done that to you."
And just like smoke, his anxiety vanished into thin air. "Well, you still got me in trouble." He teased her once realizing everything was fine again.
"I know, and I'm sorry."
She's different, he thought, different than how she was face to face.
"And the groping was quiet immature."
"Who would've thought a Frenchman can resist a woman's touch?" Her response earned herself a charming laugh from Maurice; something that was reserved for Julia during their dating years.
"You could say I'm quiet the résistant," He jested, and they shared a laugh that was slightly too loud for Paul's liking, in the next room.
They began the whole delicate process of getting to know each other — Delilah was thirty-six, and she was lucky enough to never marry or fallen in love.
Maurice told her that he was almost fifty — honesty is the best policy — and explained that he was married, but still mingling.
The jokes they made were smutty and personal, but neither was offended as they had a strange kind of chemistry together.
About an hour passed before Delilah began to yawn and her voice became thin and drowsy.
"I supposed we should go to bed now," Maurice tenderly said. "Good night, Delilah. Take care of yourself."
The woman chuckled lightly, amused by how attentive the man was to her mannerisms. "Yes, I suppose I have to, don't I?" She playfully remarked.
"Let's remain friends." His bold request was met with a good response.
"Well, why do you think I snuck that note in?" Delilah played with the pack of French cigarettes in her hand.
"Cheeky..."
"Good night, Frenchie."
As soon as Delilah bid her farewell, her handset was slammed down, ending the call rather abruptly.
Maurice did not even get to open his mouth to respond, but he was the happiest he'd been in years — and that was all that mattered to him; that Delilah and Evelyn were in his life. For better or for worse.
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PS: I didn't mean to make this chapter 8000 words long, but to hell with it... hope you enjoyed it! I'll be very busy for the next few weeks, so please don't expect any updates. Comment what you think of the story!