"Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power." ― Oscar Wilde, Irish Poet 1854-1900

"What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten." - Southern Cross, Crosby, Stills & Nash

Chapter 18

"Oh lord," Scarlett yelped. "I promised the children I would tuck them in - what time is it?"

"A little before ten," Tate replied, looking at his pocket watch.

"We have to hurry," she said. "They'll wait up and we have an early morning tomorrow."

Leif stood gracefully and offered her his hand, pulling her up with practiced ease. They gathered the drop cloths and hurried inside to lock everything up. Scarlett quickly packed up half the pralines and the book Leif brought her before hurrying out to the waiting buggy.

He helped her into the seat beside him while Tate helped Babette into the back seat before loading himself. The streets were quiet on the way to Inman Park, the cooler air sobering Scarlett. She tried to discreetly examine the buggy. It was of excellent quality, but not ostentatious, dressed much as Leif did, in obviously well-cut and well-made clothes of quality, but somewhat understated, as if he was trying not to stick out. Which was impossible, given his size and looks.

"I enjoyed the -" what had he called it? "- the moon gazing," she said as she regarded his profile against the night sky, the high cheekbones, and square, determined jaw. "Is that something you do a lot in your home country?"

He glanced at her. "Yes, in Norway we spend a good amount of time outside at night, gazing at the stars and moon. When the northern lights are present, especially."

"Northern lights? I've heard of them," she said, "A famous painter - Frederic Church, I think - has a painting that is actually thought to represent the end of the war. I saw it on exposition with my husband a couple of years ago. Aurora - " she hesitated.

'Borealis," he supplied with a smile. "I am from the town of Trysil, the best place for viewing the lights. Between late September and late March - six months - it is dark from late afternoon until late morning, but the northern lights give us quite a show to make up for it."

"I remember a sled pulled by dogs in the painting," she said. She silently thanked Rhett for forcing her to attend the exposition and pay attention to the works of art displayed. He had enriched her life, and she had to admit it.

"Yes, we do that. I had a team of dogs when I was a boy. You can move very quickly that way," he turned toward her. "It is so cold in the long winter, so much colder than what you have ever likely experienced. Extremely beautiful, however."

She detected a wistful tone in his voice. "Do you miss it?"

"I do, and that's why I go back at least once a year. There's just more opportunity in the states," he said. "And I've made my home in New Orleans for the past several years due to my investments there. It's a colorful, interesting place. There are - possibilities - shall we say, that aren't common in other areas of the country. I do miss the silence and peace of home from time to time, however."

She wondered what exactly he meant by 'possibilities'.

"Back to the moon gazing," he said after a moment. "Norwegians believe moonlight is as important as sunlight. And when you live near the sea you are acutely aware of how it affects the tides. Sir Isaac Newton confirmed that some time ago, but we always knew in Norway."

"Acts of lunacy have been connected to the full moon," he pulled the reins to the side to guide the horses around a mud puddle. "Although I think you'd have to be at least a little crazed in the first place," he grinned.

If Babette and Tate were conversing, she couldn't tell from the front seat. The clip-clop of the horses' hooves were the only sounds Scarlett could hear as Leif's deep, melodic voice transported her along with the buggy.

"The moon has a gravitational pull on the earth," he paused before continuing. "Just as some people have a gravitational pull on others."

He looked at her then, just a second past nonchalance. She didn't know quite how to respond; somehow her usual flirty behavior didn't seem fitting. She let the moment pass in silence, and was surprised how comfortable saying nothing felt.

When they arrived at her home Leif handed Scarlett down, then retrieved a package from under his seat.

"Give this to Dilcey, please. She requested it from New Orleans."

She examined the packet. In the moonlight, she could just make out the label reading 'Marie Laveau, Creole Queen and Voodoo Practitioner, Chartres Street, New Orleans.'

"I am merely making a delivery," he chuckled at the expression on her face. "You'll have to speak with Dilcey for any questions you may have."

"See you in the morning," he jumped back in the buggy, surprisingly graceful despite the length of his legs.

"Night, Scarlett," Babette and Tate waved merrily. Once she got inside and shut the door she heard the horses as they trotted away. She instructed a waiting Prissy when to wake her before heading for the stairs.

Scarlett rushed to Ella's room first and watched the sleeping little girl in a pink eyelet nightgown, coppery braids spread out on the white pillows. When she leaned over to kiss her goodnight those green eyes flew open.

"Have you been drinking wine?" Ella asked, never one to tarry.

"Yes, darling, we had some wine, and got to visiting, I am so sorry that I'm late."

"And tomorrow night you will be late too because of the supper," Ella pouted a bit. She'd gotten used to her mother having no social life. And was beginning to know just how to use that pout.

"That is true. Babette is making you and Wade and Beau something special to have at home so you won't miss out. And tomorrow is an early one – we have to ride nearly to Stone Mountain."

"Yes," Ella said, her eyes lit.

"Go back to sleep, little one."

"Is that a storybook?" Ella said, eyeing the cookbook in Scarlett's hand.

"No, it is the very unusual cookbook Mr. Leif brought me."

"Please read me a recipe for cookies," Ella asked, "so I can go to sleep dreaming of them."

Silly girl, Scarlett thought, wishing she was a child again, only wanting to dream of sweets. She started to refuse due to the lateness of the hour, but some hurtful words about a cat being a better mother echoed in her mind, and she thumbed through the alphabetical listings of the lovely illustrated pages.

Biscuits are what the French call cookies, she remembered, and proceeded to read a lovely recipe for butter-rich Sable Bretons, and then the start of one for the colorful macarons she had once seen in a bakery window a lifetime ago, before Ella drifted back into slumber.

She stopped by Wade's room. He was still up with a book, naturally.

"Just a few more minutes, Wade." He grunted in response without looking at her. She ran her hand through his soft brown curls, and he didn't pull away.

She went to her room and dressed for bed, drinking a glass of water along the way. While propped up against the pillows she looked through the cookbook once more while waiting for sleep to claim her. It did read more like a storybook for hungry and adventurous adults. That Dumas had some imagination - why, there were five pages on using whale ambergris as a flavouring, and a recipe for bayonnaise, that looked suspiciously like a French version of mayonnaise; which she had enjoyed once at The Kimball House served atop a salad of chopped chicken and celery.

Scarlett then found a recipe for cooked elephant legs and another dish that required sixty rabbit tongues. That is a great many rabbit tongues, she thought and shuddered as she laid the book on her side table, then closed her eyes, the evening of fine wine consumption and company helping her to drift into sleep seamlessly.

Instead of running and fog, she dreamt of whales and elephants hosting a banquet where people covered in dollops of mayonnaise were the main course, surrounded by a chorus of screeching rabbits, very much demonstrating appreciation for the keeping of their tongues.

OOOOooooOOOOooo

Update 12/13/2020 Covid test was negative! Thank you for your concern, dear readers.

A/N I went ahead and posted this even though it is shortish and I meant to make it longer by including the next day because, well, I might have you-all-know-what.

I was exposed rather hard and heavily at work and am at home awaiting test results. I don't feel so hot, so who knows when there will be a new chapter. Hope this one makes sense, lol.

I love the quote from Oscar Wilde - and will be exploring the connection between sex and power and Mr. B in a future chapter, never fear :) Also, if you have a chance google Frederic Edwin Church's Aurora Borealis. It's a hauntingly beautiful painting, and is widely believed to represent the end of the Civil War and all the damages it wrought, on both sides.

Sending positive thoughts and prayers out to the universe. We are in a helluva pickle, folks. Love to you all.