Midsummer's Eve

by Kitty Margo

  For once inside, Adam let it be known loud and clear that I wasn't the welcomed visitor here. Oh no! She was perched on the hearth in a most provocative fashion!

  And can you believe the man didn’t even bother to offer me a seat? Fine then! So much for the pretense of being civilized. Instead he, rather inhospitably, left me standing in the middle of the room while he went to immediately position himself protectively in front of his play date shielding her from my view.

  Of a sudden his severe attack of nerves seemed to flee in her presence. If he could have sprouted vibrant tail feathers and a beak he would have resembled a proud peacock. With an evil glint smoldering in his crystal blue gaze and a smile of extreme satisfaction playing across his soft moist lips, he stepped to the side with a flourish as if to say, “Ta Frigging Dah!”

  Oh, my Sweet Jesus!

  Even though my vision was a far cry from 20/20 at the moment, it was clear enough for me to be cognizant of the fact that I should have stayed my happy ass at home and minded my own damn business. All the anger left my body in one breath as miserable defeat settled in its place. If my world hadn’t already begun to crumble, well let me tell you the foundation sank into the mud with a loud sucking noise within mere seconds.

  She was absolutely gorgeous. A delicate porcelain china doll with waist length silky black hair, the requisite slanted eyes surrounded by exquisite features, and a dainty little body snugly tucked into low‑rise jeans and a pink V necked top.

  In that instant, I realized I could give up, pack it up, and go home. This was a hopeless fight. If I were a man I wouldn’t leave her for me either. Any man would be proud to stroll through Bass Pro Shops with his arm draped possessively over her slim shoulder. I kid you not. The woman would give Halle Berry a run for her money, and in my humble opinion, there are few woman on earth who can accomplish that feat.

  I wasn’t about to let them know that I felt like Miss Congeniality with nothing but a flimsy ribbon draped across my shoulder in her presence. While she, blessed with a spectacular gene pool, strutted down the runway with two-dozen roses trailing from her arms and a diamond-encrusted tiara situated on top of her gorgeous head.

  “So Chia,” I hissed, realizing that Adam’s and my time together had reached its zenith. Like Elvis, Adam’s love for me had left the building. I had nothing more to lose. “How are the husband and kids?”

  She focused her ebony gaze on Adam and took it upon herself to ignore me. Now why would she do that?

  “Okay, let’s try this again. On the off chance that your religion doesn’t frown upon this particular sin, does your husband seem at all bothered by the fact that you are committing adultery? With astounding frequency!”

  “We weren’t doing anything except talking.” Adam abruptly jumped to her defense.

  Rest assured this action sent my anger leaping with pole‑vault worthy bounds. “In the bedroom!” Sharp bolts of pain seared through my head and flashed like jagged forks of lightening behind my eyes, causing me to stumble and clutch the back of a chair for support.

  “Yep.” He had actually succeeded in making matters much worse. Obviously, he had forgotten his numerous and previously uttered lies. “We were just lying across the bed talking. Since when is talking considered a mortal sin?”

  I opened my mouth to accuse him of being the pathological liar that he was, when our girl finally found her voice and lowering her head whispered, “I just a friend.”

  As she dropped her head her soft shining glorious mane cascaded down to cover her exquisite features. She raked a quivering hand through the silky smooth tresses and pushed the hair over her forehead in what came off as an extremely sexy gesture.

  Oh! What I wouldn’t have given for a pair of heavy duty thinning shears at that moment.

  “No! You just a ho” I informed her with ill concealed contempt. Then, glancing at Adam’s idiotic grin, I offered a suggestion. “Since you have to leave in about five minutes, you might as well take her to the bedroom and finish what I so rudely interrupted. Then you’ll still have four minutes left to get dressed for work.”

  Then, in abject defeat, I turned and left before I was blinded by the approaching onslaught of excruciating pain or before either of them could pierce through the bold brazen exterior and see what was really happening to my tortured insides. It was beyond humiliating to realize that I had been played for such an enormous fool, and that Adam and Chia had carried out the deed with such consummate precision.

  Even though I wanted nothing more than to sink behind the steering wheel of the Jeep, dissolving into a shuddering mass of tears, I didn’t have the luxury. Not with them glaring at me from the window. Every ounce of attention was required to focus and prevent the wheels from veering off the shoulder of the road, sending the vehicle flipping across the field in a crunching conglomeration of twisted, smoking metal. The need for concentration necessitated that my impending collapse be put on hold for a few minutes.

  Razor sharp, slicing stabs of sheer agony took up residence behind my eyebrows. At the same time, the few squiggly lines had been fruitful and multiplied until all but mere pinpoints of light were now blotted out. Leaning forward, I placed my chin on the steering wheel in my increasing haze of anguish and searched desperately for the yellow line. It was there but, lo and behold, now there were two of them. And the sides of the pavement and everything else had been swallowed up by the gaping black hole of tunnel vision.

  I should under no circumstances be operating a motor vehicle in my present condition. I was going blind, not ignorant. Yet what was I supposed to do? Degrade myself by politely requesting that Adam pry himself from the clutches of Miss Married Universe long enough to chauffeur me home? Not hardly!

  After what seemed like two solid hours of pure driving hell, and by the grace of God, I made it home safely.

  Stunned.

  Dazed.

  Temporarily blinded.

  And numb to the outside world, I had crawled into bed and allowed myself the luxury of a complete mental breakdown.

  So, I was now painfully aware that his murmured words of loving me until the day he died were just idle chitchat to the man who had held my fragile heart in his filthy hands. They were words designed, rather successfully, to get what he could from me. Let’s just suffice it to say that I am a giving soul. While the reality is that every second he spent with me, dreams of the moments that he and his beloved Chia could be together were evidently running rampant through his deceptive mind.

  Still, my thoughts raced with the speed of a lap at Concord Motor Speedway as I invented dozens of excuses to convince myself that Justin had been mistaken. His horrid tale of Adam’s lies and betrayal couldn’t be true. Could it? I had found it an almost impossible task to wrap my mind around the fact that Adam could hold me in his arms at night whispering declarations of undying love, and then utter the same words of devotion to another woman the very next day.

  Was one person actually capable of committing such extreme depths of deception? I had found out the hard way, with the force of a 2 by 4 between the eyes, that the answer to that question was a resounding you better believe it!

  My father had recently deeded my siblings and me several acres of land in the woods. Just the week before Adam and I had tromped through the tick-infested woods and chosen a secluded, shady spot nestled between towering oaks on which to build a cozy log cabin and spend our weekends fishing in the nearby river. Lord knows I hate to fish.

  But, in the name of love, I would have waded knee deep through the muddy, snake-infested and poison ivy thriving riverbank, waited patiently for that stupid little orange cork to bob, and swatted mosquitoes and risked malaria for the entire day, to be near the man I love. The week before, we had even discussed going on an Alaskan Cruise. Adam had the desire to spend a few nights in an igloo and do some ice fishing in Alaska. Be still my heart!

  What does a person do when the heartbreaking truth comes crashing down on them? You already know the answer to
this question. But in my case, as I explained earlier, you run! Run! Run! Run! Hop in the car and don’t dare look back! Never mind the fact that every convenience store you pull into is operated by a diminutive Asian with long, flowing, silky black hair. Could someone please explain to me why the Asian populace never seems burdened by split ends?

  At any rate, Christmas 2011 had been hell in a hand basket. The good part, the only good part, was that I had been so sick with the flu that it passed by in a blur. I had remained heavily medicated and slept through the never‑ending festivities. The thought of pasting on a fake smile and pretending to enjoy the holiday cheer with family and friends, without Adam, sent me spiraling out of control into a bout of deep despair. It was a depression that I knew none of my tee totaling relatives could possibly serve enough eggnog to alleviate.

  Thank God my son hadn’t been able to come home for Christmas. Don’t get me wrong! I love that child with every part of me that loves! Yet, I would have felt obligated, and he would have insisted, that I show a little holiday cheer at the dreaded family gatherings! The horror!

  Then New Years rolled around. My flu symptoms had abated, but were replaced by feelings of hurt and betrayal so unbearable that it made the flu feel like a joyous romp in the park. Whoever coined the phrase time heals all wounds, certainly wasn’t spending any quality time in my bedraggled bedroom slippers.

  At long last, the celebrations for those who had cause to celebrate ended, and it was Adam’s birthday, January 10. How many times I picked up the phone, hit *67 and dialed his number just to hear his voice? I knew he knew it was me, but did I care one whit? Hell no! Not when thanks solely to him my golden years would either be spent punching out license plates or modeling the latest fashion in designer straight jackets. I was going stark raving mad. My moods flipped like coins, with crying jags of melancholy one minute and raging fits of murderous intent the next.

  I began having my first ever full-blown panic attacks. My broken heart thundered against my rib cage. My sweating body shook with uncontrollable spasms of misery. In short my life had become little more than a huge pain in the ass.

  I explained these thoughts to my doctor who prescribed a daily dose of Valium. The drug calmed my body to the point of being catatonic, yet did nothing to slow my racing mind. A mind that recalled every marvelous second spent with Adam in too vivid detail. A mind that felt compelled to continually replay the soft voice of Adam calling Chia “baby”. A mind that seemed determined not to let me live one day without remembering the demonic gleam in his eyes as he had slowly stepped from in front of Chia in a sadistic, calculated move designed to convince me that I could cease the battle. The North had soundly whipped the South’s ass once again.

  Which reminds me to beg this question; why couldn’t I have passed my remaining years without witnessing the Charming Chia up close and personal? I could have been content in my cocoon of blissful ignorance believing that she looked like a woman with half a dozen kids is supposed to look. I mean, shouldn’t she have a few unsightly wrinkles? Better still, a few deep creases in her porcelain skin? Crows feet? Possess an occasional grey hair? Be bordering on obesity? Facial hair? Couldn’t she at least have one hanging mole? How is it possible for a 35‑year‑old mother of six to resemble a 20‑year‑old runway model?

  I had heard recently on GMA that 60 is the new 40. Then 49 should be the new what? 29?

  Okay, time for the old reality check. If I would get laser resurfacing, a tummy-tuck, a boob lift, teeth veneers and the much‑ballyhooed butt implants, it’s entirely possible that I could pass for maybe 40. Although, a man would have to have some serious cataracts clouding his vision and glasses thick enough to pick up Sirius Radio for me to pass as 29.

  I could always get the above mentioned cosmetic surgery, plus some, and present my new and improved Beyonce body before Adam’s awe inspired gaze making him pea green I think maybe I was Scarlett in another life with jealousy. What a joke. Who am I trying to kid? I would have to get surgery to slant my eyes, along with long black silky straight hair extensions to entice that man.

  Nevertheless, I had come to a major life decision. I was finished with love. Not even going to go there anymore. Nope. It just doesn’t work for me and it certainly isn’t worth the accompanying heartache.

  Besides, I have a history of falling for the wrong man, normally a younger man with a fondness for the alcoholic beverage. Like a lot of women, I fluttered toward the bad boy type like a duck to a June bug. A nice hard-working executive type in a suit and tie has zero appeal for me. I desired an attractive, yet rugged outdoorsy man. One in form fitting jeans who enjoys going out and having a jolly good time and as a general rule that seemed to entail drinking, going to clubs and flirting with women.

  Oh no! Now Leanne Rhimes is singing How Do I Live Without You. Of all things! Time to change the station. Aerosmith, Love In An Elevator. We never did that. This could be a safe song. I turned the radio on full blast and tried, unsuccessfully, to drown out my thoughts.

  Four

  In Twin Rivers snow is a rare occurrence. However, the following Friday shortly after lunch the skies turned a dull grey and light flurries peppered down. I’d been so caught up in my own misery lately that I hadn’t heard the weather forecast. And, totally shocking, my parents hadn’t called with their usual Weather Channel update and urgings to rush to the grocery store for bread and milk.

  Okay, borrowing from another nursery rhyme, my cupboards were bare. Food hadn’t been first and foremost on my mind in recent weeks. This brought back memories of the many nights, in the beginning of our relationship, when Adam would come to my house after work and we would grill steaks and corn on the cob…never mind. I hurried to Food Lion to stock the cabinet and fridge since I knew I would soon be having a visitor.

  Sure enough, when I arrived back home Mallory, one of my best friends and also an employee, was sitting on my porch swing with duffel bag in hand. She has developed a habit of camping at my house during snow and ice storms. The girl is petrified of being stuck in her house alone when the power goes out, and since I have gas logs, we can stay warm even if it does. To be honest, I was thrilled to see her. At least I would have company for the weekend and wouldn’t be snowbound alone.

  We were debating on whether to cook spaghetti or lasagna when my parents called and invited us to supper next door. By the time we walked the path between my house and my parent’s the light flurries had changed to big fat flakes and the snow was coming down in earnest.

  We were greeted at the door by the enticing aroma of my dad’s down home Southern cuisine. He had cooked a mouth-watering chicken stew consisting of chicken, potatoes, carrots, celery, onions, one of his red hot peppers, Spicy V-Eight Juice, and enough butter to clog at least 90% of your arteries. For desert he whipped up his famous snow cream.

  Mallory ate, as usual, like a small elephant. She is blessed with one of those amazing metabolisms that allow her to pig out at will and never gain one stinking ounce. Of course, it also helps that her favorite activity is bedroom related and a calorie-burning workout in itself. And trust me; she burns an outrageous amount of calories at said activity.

  After a supper that had us swearing we wouldn’t eat again for three days, we moved to the living room. It was a cozy room, with afghans thrown across the backs of a floral patterned couch and chair that were beginning to show signs of wear and tear. Although if you asked my dad he would insist the furniture still had several good years of quality usage.

  Dad grew up during the Great Depression and even to this day, he refuses to waste anything. Before he would take money out of his bank account, he would rather do without. Don’t even get him started on buying on credit. It has never been an option for him, and it will bring you a heated lecture on the perils of debt. He firmly believes that if you don’t have the money to buy it, you don’t have any business with it.

  Cozy by the fire, I was reminded of the many autumn evenings spent sitting around a campfire and
roasting marshmallows when my son was small. And what is my favorite campfire activity? You got it! Ghost stories, of course! “Do you believe in ghosts, Mallory?” The wind howled through the eaves of my parent’s old house, causing the living room lights to flicker eerily. Oh boy! What an appropriate ambiance.

  “You know I do! Don’t start that shit, Eve!” We moved away from the intense heat radiating from the crackling fire. I never understood why Dad wouldn’t just spring for central heat instead of dealing with all the trouble associated with heating with wood.

  I stifled a smile as we settled back against colorful throw pillows and she seemed to turn quite pale. Bless her heart. I should really be ashamed of myself for tormenting someone who fully believed that spirits hovered in the air around us.

  “This house is haunted you know?” I leaned toward her, all the while studying her eyes for her reaction. As if on cue, one of Dad’s guinea hens came running around the house screeching that God-awful racket they make and the poor girl almost found herself in the attic. “My mom has frequent visitors from the other side.”

  “Shut up, Eve! Now dammit! I mean it!”

  “It sure is haunted,” my mother, Evelyn, agreed. The woman could hear a pin drop.

  My mom is short, plump, with a head full of white hair that she has shampooed, set and sprayed, or I prefer to use the term lacquered, into submission every Friday morning.

  Now my parents are two of the most well loved people in the entire county. Everyone in our town, even the ones who aren’t any relation to us, calls my dad “Pa” and asks Mom when she is going to fix one of her mouth watering country breakfasts for them. To give you an inkling of how old fashioned my beloved parents are, Mom still refers to her underwear as step-ins, and Dad wears britches and says things like, “I reckon I better go over yunder and get me a poke to put these arsh taters in.”