Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid
Rated PG-13 for language and some violence.
Disclaimer ~ I don't own 'em.
Summery ~ Evelyn is suffering from postpartum depression while an old flame from Rick's past returns to haunt the present.
"Rick!" Evelyn called, the infant Alexander in one hand, a ladle in the other. The pounding at the front door that had just seemed to cease came again, as Alex began to scream and the pot on the stove quickly boiled over. "Rick!" The silence from upstairs was more than enough of an answer for her as she threw the ladle onto the stove, trying to pull the heavy pot off with her free hand, spilling half the stock over the kitchen floor. The knocking came a third time, as Evelyn all but threw the pot on the floor, Alex grabbing for her hair, screaming bloody murder. "Coming!" she cried out, trying to shush the baby as she made her way from the kitchen to the front entry, mumbling under her breath about impatient people and husbands who ignore their wives.
Evelyn glanced out the window without really seeing, throwing open the door to find a young woman, perhaps a year or so younger than herself (but certainly not looking as though she had bared a child, as Evelyn began to grow rather self-conscious about her baby fat that nearly a year later had yet to be shed, the frazzled mat of hair falling from the once tightly-wound bun, and spectacles sliding down her nose, not to mention the baby spit-up that stained her blouse and the soup stock that splattered her hose and shoes.) "Can – Can I help you?" she asked as the buxom redhead raised an elegant eyebrow at her.
"Yes, I'm looking for Rick O'Connell...Does he live here?" the woman asked, a heavy French accent muddling her words a bit.
"Y-Yes, he does," Evelyn said, noticing that she had begun to stutter as she found she did when she got overly flustered...or really drunk. "Rick!!" she shouted once more, turning back to the woman. "Of course the question is," she said, shifting the screaming child to the other arm to give her ear a rest, "if he is even listening." The stranger forced a smile and some sound that might have been considered a laugh at one time or other, but continued to stand in wait as though she anticipated a great catastrophe.
The thunder of heavy footfalls echoed through to the front foyer, signaling for both women to turn around as Rick called from the hall, "Evy, what's for supper?" He turned the corner, stopping short as his eyes fell on the stranger. "Marguerite," he breathed, bewildered.
"Then it's true," she said, pursing her lips. "Il est vrai, vous fils d'une chienne! Vous sac menteur de merde*!!" Marguerite turned on the narrow porch, running down the small sidewalk to the street where the cars rolled by.
"Shit," Rick said under his breath, as he grabbed a coat from the front closet.
"Rick, what's going on?"
"I'll handle this."
"But Rick, who—" Her words were cut off at the slamming of the front door. "Was she?" Alex's tiny hand reached up, grabbing another fistful of hair with his death-grip. "All right, all right," she said, turning back to the kitchen with the screaming child, not before glancing out the front window once more to the empty sidewalk.
*Translation (used an on-line translator, so if it's not right, don't blame me.) ~ "It's true, you son of a bitch! You lying sack of shit!!"