Smooth Waters

         The baklava was perfect.
         Gianna's eyes closed as she took another bite of the flaky pastry, savoring the sweet honey, cinnamon and walnut flavors. As she ate, she thought about her grandmother, whose home had always been filled with the scent of something baking.
         "I told you it was just like Nana's." Aoife, Gianna's younger sister, had already finished her own slice of baklava and was sipping a cappuccino.
         They sat outdoors at a cast-iron table in front of a small café enjoying a rare afternoon snack together. Neither woman had seen the other in at least a month because of their schedules, but her sister had insisted. The sun-dappled day seemed just right to Gianna for a pastry and a date with her family.
         Smiling, she brushed a strand of black hair from her face. "Maybe they stole her recipe."
         Aoife snorted disdainfully. "Not if they wanted to keep their fingers. Remember when we tried sneaking cookies when we were kids?"
         "Fifteen years later and I've still got a red mark."
         "I had no idea it had left such an impression on you."
         Gianna smirked as she tossed a crumb at her sister. Aoife grinned back, green eyes twinkling in the sunlight. The tips of her short chestnut hair brushed her shoulders as she shrugged.
         "You know, we really ought to visit Nana again soon," Gianna mused as she finished off the last morsel of her pastry. Taking a sip of bitter black coffee to wash it down, she smiled up at the bright sun.
         "You just want more of her baklava," her sister pointed out, sipping her coffee as she closed her eyes and turned her face upward, basking in the afternoon sun. A soft breeze drifted through the trees, offering a cool respite to the warmth of the day.
         "You're not wrong," Gianna chuckled as she took a sip from her own cup. She rubbed her stomach. It was beginning to ache a bit. She'd have to steer clear of the sugar for a while. A sudden lance of pain took her breath away, causing her to gasp.
         Aoife sat up, her eyes filled with concern. "Gi, are you okay?"
         Closing her eyes, Gianna shook her head, trying to clear it. A wave of dizziness hit her as claws of fire ripped into her stomach. Her voice caught as she tried to reply, turning her words into a choked gurgle. Her lungs seized then, refusing to draw another breath. Clutching her chest, she gasped, desperate for air.
         Patterns of color began to dance before her eyes. Misty figures began to form and writhe on the edges of her vision. She tried to stand, but her body would no longer obey her, and she collapsed to the pavement.
         Unable to breathe, unable to move, her tears darkened the red stones of the sidewalk beneath her as she lay in torment. Her entire body began to convulse as stabbing pains lanced through her. She tried to scream, but couldn't get past the blood and foam that bubbled in her throat.
         The world began to spin away then, slowly dragging her toward the blackness that had been crawling toward her.
         Strangely, she felt no fear now, only the hope that the pain would end. Her sister's voice was the last thing Gianna heard as she fell into darkness.

******

Extracts from the journal of Gianna O'Keefe:

March 29th
         Even my sweet sister Aoife bought the act.
         For this last year, I wore my engagement with pride, like it was a fine garment to be donned at the proper time. I was glad to tell friends and family, to listen to their cries of joy and surprise as they gushed about how happy they were for me.
         I was so sure someone would see through it. But then, a lie is only successful when it's spun with some truth, right? The whole family was thrilled. Nana insisted on baking her special treats, even though she can barely get around in the kitchen anymore. And Mother's eyes fairly lit up, all sparkly behind her dark hair as she insisted I bring Morgan to dinner as soon as possible.
         Morgan Draycott is a gorgeous man, all dark hair, deep voice and hard muscle. And he can be more than sweet when he feels like it. Hell, with that silver-slicked, forked tongue of his, he could convince the sun to swoon.
         "We're going to have a beautiful life together. Everything you've dreamt of, just as long as you marry me."
         He held out a platinum ring topped by seven star-shaped diamonds. My breath caught in my throat, at both the beauty of the gift and the implication of his words. The corners of his thin lips curved into a smile as he stared at me, waiting for my answer.
         I noticed that the smile did not reach his golden eyes.
         Despite the whisper of doubt, I allowed him to place the ring on my finger. A thrill slinked down my spine as the light caught on the edges of the jewels, at the sensation of the cool metal on my hand.
         Offer a starving man a feast and he will devour every morsel, even if he knows it will make him sick. For what more does he have but this one meal?
         Morgan offered me what he knew I craved. How could I resist?

April 13th
         Birthdays: Reminders that we're one day closer to the grave.
         I brought a homemade black forest cake to Nana's. I hadn't had the time to shop for a gift, so I'd put my efforts into baking.
         When I arrived, the house was already alive with the sound of laughter and lively chatter. The gravel driveway beneath my feet made that soul-satisfying crunch, and I could already smell my mother's pot roast through the open window. My left foot caught on that warped third step, which everyone knows is a hazard but no one's bothered to fix. The cake wobbled in my grip as I stumbled gracelessly onto the porch.
         Mother pushed through the screen door, flour dusting her olive skin, her lips tugged into a smile. Her cornflower-blue sundress, a gift from my father several years before, had begun to fray at the hem.
         "Hello dear. Oh, my goodness, what a lovely dessert! Come in, come in." She ushered me inside, as only mothers can. Sometimes she reminds me of a short, dark-haired hen. I followed her to the kitchen. Aoife was seated at the small mahogany side table. Nana was at the counter, elbow-deep in yeasty dough, intent on making another of her delectable creations. I think I get my love of food from her.
         "Ah, it does my heart good to see the both of you," she exclaimed with a crinkly-cheeked grin. She swept me into a hug that I swear could have crushed stones.
         "Oof! Nana, I need that rib," I laughed as I hugged her, planting a kiss atop her snow-white head. She chuckled as she let go of me and patted Aoife's hair with a wrinkled, flour-covered hand.
         "It certainly is nice, both my daughters under the same roof," came my mother's low murmur as she carried four shamrock-green porcelain plates into the dining room.
         I always wonder why she insists on using that set. Two of the delicately etched matching teacups were broken years ago.
         Aoife seemed aloof, silently running long fingers through her hair to shake off the flour dust. "Happy birthday," I said with as much happiness as I could muster.
         Her head snapped up, and beneath dark lashes I glimpsed the little girl I once knew, a porcelain fragment locked deep in those emerald eyes. In that heartbeat, the world stopped and all the oxygen in the room dissipated. Familiar fingers pushed into my chest and squeezed.
         Deep breath.
         Another.
         The world still rotated. Air still circulated. Deep breath.
         The pressure in my chest released then. The sounds of Nana humming "The Last Rose of Summer," blissful and unaware as she kneaded her dough, reminded me of my surroundings.
         Aoife stared hard at me for a few seconds. "Thank you. And for the cake. I'm sure it's delicious," she replied in a wooden voice as she leaned back against the sage chair cushion. Her eyes fell on my engagement ring, and her face flushed.
         "You're welcome," I replied quietly.
         Fractured teacups are not easily mended.

May 23
         Tonight, I'm going to give it back. When I look at the ring, there is only a hard glint beneath the stones' sparkle, a permanent coldness within the platinum band.
         It has become a high-class shackle.
         And I can no longer bear its touch.
         I'm not concerned with hurting Morgan. To be honest, after what he did, this may be something for me to relish. Perhaps I should bring a camera, so I can relive the moment.
         Shall I give the neighbors something new to gossip about for a while? It's a tempting thought. Shall I tell them in full-voice how he forced himself on me, then when I fell pregnant, he beat me until I lost the child?
         Would they believe me? Probably not. After all, he is this city's golden boy. Thanks to his father's successful investment firm, Morgan has half the city's lawyers and judges licking his filth-smeared toes. And with all that money, he believes he's untouchable.
         Maybe he is. But that doesn't mean I am powerless.
         Besides, I'm no longer the only toy in his box, if the rumors are true. Apparently, my fiancé has taken a shine to another woman. I should hate her, but I don't. I feel sorry for any woman who is witless enough to fall for Morgan's mask. I've seen behind the curtain; I no longer want to live in his land of Oz.
         All I want is my freedom.

July 15th
         I took the weekend off to visit Nana. She lives in such a lovely home, built by Grandpapa's own hands. The aging house is a shade of yellow that lightens in the sun and makes me think of peace and brightness.
         But it's just a façade.
         I wonder if they realize that I notice. The plastic smiles, the laughter that is just a bit too high-pitched to be real. I see the memory lurking in their eyes. The awkward too-long glances, the silences that last a heartbeat longer than they should.
         Bright paint on the outside of a home that's rotting from the inside.
         Some people just can't handle truth. Morgan told my mother I'd left him because I was mentally unstable, unable to handle a relationship. And would you credit it, she actually believed his crass lies!
         Maybe that's why I've never brought it up with them. Believe me, I've longed to. So many times the words just linger there on my lips like rainwater on the windowsill after a storm. I leave them there, because there's nothing to be gained from speaking about it. And I confess, part of me enjoys watching them fester and fumble.
         Let them speak first. I'm done taking the blame for Morgan.
         A few moments ago Aoife burst into the garden, where I'm still taking in the scent of the lilacs on the breeze. It relaxes me out here. She plunked herself into a chair opposite me. Her blouse matched her eyes, emerald in the sunlight. I hid my annoyance by flipping through a magazine idly.
         "I'm going to apply for a new job. This one is just not working out," she mused as she examined her manicured nails, brushing bits of flour from her delicate fingers. Flour seems to get everywhere Nana goes.
         "That's great. Any ideas on what you're looking for?" I asked, trying to seem interested.
         "Oh, not really." She flashed me a smile then. I tried not to scream at her callous indifference. As Shakespeare once wrote, "Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep...Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit."
         Truth isn't always sweet like honey; sometimes it doesn't go down easily. When this family finally tastes it, I want to be there. I want to see the narrowing of their eyes, the wrinkling of furrowed brows, the downward curl of tightened lips.
         Most of all I want to see the shame reflected back at me on every face, for the sake of my unborn daughter. She deserves at least that much from the family she never got to meet. They won't acknowledge Morgan's wrongdoing in front of me now, but one day they will. The day will come when they can no longer close their eyes and ignore the truth.
         But for today, we'll just continue to smile falsely at one another, bake more baklava and sweep more dust beneath the rugs.

*****

         Aoife screamed.
         No delicate, girlish cry found her lips. It ripped from her throat in a wordless, anguished howl. As soon as it was loosed, it was swept away upon the breath of the storm that had descended upon the city. Bruised clouds battled for a place in the evening sky.
         Her mother reached for her, trying to offer comfort.
         She noticed none of it.
         Tears streamed from her red-rimmed eyes, mingling with the falling rain. She dropped to the grass, ignoring the chill of the water soaking through her thin black pantsuit. Her clothing didn't matter.
         Nothing mattered.
         She reached a trembling hand toward the cold metal plate embedded in the earth. Her fingertips traced the raised brass lettering as she hovered between disbelief and reality. Part of her wondered if perhaps she was dreaming. She could feel her heart racing in her chest.
         The sudden crash of thunder overhead reminded her that this was no dream.
         Gianna is dead.
         She'd never have to wonder anymore if she'd suddenly find her name in some tabloid. It was hard enough that she'd stolen her sister's fiancé. The last few months had been hell. Even now it was a struggle, having to put on this act in front of her family, as if she were heartbroken.
         But all Aoife felt was relief.
         At least she'd been able to get rid of the small honey jar before the police had arrived, so even if they had investigated, nothing could be tied back to her. She wondered briefly if the grayanotoxins would even register on an autopsy report. She knew they weren't common, since she'd had to put in a special order for this kind of honey. But no one had even bothered to check. Accidental death, they'd decided.
         The rain began to subside as the storm faded into the distance. Aoife stood slowly, ignoring the damp patches on her knees. Her eyes still fixed on her sisters' grave, she allowed herself a small, inward smile before she turned, allowing her mother to lead her away.
         Morgan was right.
         The baklava really was perfect.








~~~~~

(Writer's Note: Shakespeare reference - Henry VI, Part 2.)