Eyes of Eve

By Aïda Reid

BLACK SUNDAY. September 7, 1940. London is burning once more as the Luftwaffe rains fire upon the city. However, London lives are not the only ones being consumed by flames. Eve Donnelly’s older brother, Christian, has been killed in Nazi-occupied France. As Eve’s world crumbles, a figure appears in a vision and the pieces of her splintered world expose a shattering truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645759072

Aïda Reid

Aïda Reid is an American author who is originally from Los Angeles but is currently a nomad with a fondness for the theatrical. Though she enjoys traveling, she hopes to someday settle in a cabin surrounded by mountains with a furry pet or two. This is her first published work.

Book preview

13:15

About the Author

Aïda Reid is an American author who is originally from Los Angeles but is currently a nomad with a fondness for the theatrical. Though she enjoys traveling, she hopes to someday settle in a cabin surrounded by mountains with a furry pet or two. This is her first published work.

Dedication

For Grandpa Jack, who inspired my love of history.

For Nana, who taught me courage and wit.

For Jacob Emanuel Turner, the kindest and most fearless soul I’ve ever known.

Copyright Information ©

Aïda Reid (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Reid, Aïda

Eyes of Eve

ISBN 9781645759058 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645759065 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645759072 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900064

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

After three revisions and a complete do-over from scratch (thank you Tuscon hotel maids for throwing out my notes) it’s hard to believe this work finally made it to print. Those who have aided me—given me writer’s CPR— I am beyond thankful, and these acknowledgments are not just a formality but a gesture of my sincere gratitude.

First, I’d like to thank my parents Christina (and her sacrifice) and Humphrey (and his sense of humor) for their love, allowing me to embrace the musty-book life, and for encouraging me to pursue the path I chose, which was the polar opposite of being in a laboratory.

Also, I need to give a big shout out to my dear friend Cameron Stell for not only being a cheerleader but for helping to literally map out my story.

To my 30 Bookclub, thank you for your feedback and support. You guys rock and I’m looking forward to another year of reading with you!

On that note, to my directors and partners (especially Eugene and Wayne) at my day job, thank you for all of the amazing opportunities you’ve given me, and to travel, which as inspired me in this field as well.

My Granny Shirley was the soul who impressed upon me the importance of reading all kinds of literature, so I’d like to thank her and all of my professors and teachers over the Saveyears—Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Balch, Ms. Childs, Elisa Pokorney, Mr. Al Schoffstall, Professor Monica Ayuso, and Professor Charles Mac MacQuarrie at CSUB—who saw something in me and pushed me to hone my skills as a writer. I’ll never stop needing your guidance.

To all my friends and family that I have not mentioned, you are all very dear to me and have been helping hands in penning this book.

Lastly, I’d like to thank the team at Austin Macauley for taking a chance on me and believing in this work.

"Death is always and under all circumstances a tragedy, for if it is not, then it means that life itself has become one."

— Theodore Roosevelt (1858–1919) Letter to Cecil Spring-Rice, March 12, 1900

He rose inside, a burning figure perishing before me. I could see him and there was nothing I could do, for it had not come to pass.

Overture Tragique

Sumner, Maine

December 15, 1938

15:38

A dense blanket of icy mist hovered overhead as I walked home from school. I pulled my scarf tighter over my nose and continued on Maine Street towards Cottage Street. West Sumner, Maine was always unpredictable this time of year. The weather here seemed to have the mind of an indecisive child—rain one day, snow the next, fog, hail. Nothing was the same two days in a row. However, this year was different. For five days there was nothing but fog. Fog and mist, the glacial kind that stung your eyes when you peered into it, into your nose when you breathed it, and mouth when a gush of it was sucked into your lungs. In all my life living here, I’d never seen such consistency. Was it a foreboding of a disturbance in the cosmos, the calm before the storm? Perhaps. But a harsh winter was coming, that I knew for sure.

I sighed heavily and felt my hot breath warm my face. I closed my eyes and imagined sitting next to the hearth, a blazing fire at my feet, sipping hot cocoa as I sampled Mother’s scrumptious shortbread. I ran my frozen fingers along the wire fence, hoping the plucking would bring circulation back to my hand. I looked in on the Parsons’ maple grove farm. The trees were barren, their branches standing naked against the frigid air, and I could see Father’s old, brown Ford pick-up in the driveway. There was no work this time of year—the maple sap wouldn’t be ready to tap until March. We managed to survive the Depression mostly unscathed, but we needed to make bigger sales—with the Parsons’ help—this next year. With Mr. Parson bedridden with a broken leg, Father took extra time away from the pharmacy to help with his daily chores.

Did Father say when he would be home? I called up ahead.

What? Christian hollered back.

Do you know when Father’s coming home? I yelled again, pulling down my scarf.

Uh…dunno.

He said around six, Terrance, my younger brother, answered.

Thanks, Terr.

You little fink, you’re not supposed to be eavesdropping when Dad’s talking to me! Christian grabbed Terrance and rubbed his hair with his fist.

Agh! No noogies! Stop, stop! Terrance struggled under Christian’s grip before managing to slip away.

I let you go that time, but next time it’ll be an infinite noogie!

I rolled my eyes and kept myself preoccupied with glancing towards the sky. A flock of geese flew above, heading somewhere warmer than here. I didn’t envy them, for I loved winter. I loved living in Maine. There was enough of every season to satisfy the senses, to appreciate each one as it came and went. Mother told me that when I was little, we went on a vacation to Palm Beach, Florida. She said the summer there was so intense I cried the entire time as if afflicted with colic. Poor Mother, I chuckled. A loud horn caught my attention. Christian pulled Terrance out of the road from a passing driver just in time. Watch where you’re going, kid! the driver bellowed out his window.

We can’t see, either! Christian dragged him back to our side of the street. The clouds were so dense it was a wonder the driver had time to react.

What do you think you’re doing? I lose sight of you for two seconds and you almost become roadkill!

I’m sorry! It’s just that I spotted this rock in the road and from the way it looked I thought it could possibly be a fragment of lava. You know, they say that all this once used to be covered in lava from a huge volcanic explosion! It’s just a theory, but wouldn’t it be cool if I found something to support it?

It’s comforting to know you’d risk your life for a piece of ancient tar.

Christian roughly let go of Terrance’s shirt.

It’s not tar.

Terrance! I rushed up; each step I took sent icy pricks up my shins. Please, be more careful.

I know. It’s just. I mean, look! He opened his hand, the small, shiny rock glistened against the gray gloom.

Later. It hurts my eyes to focus right now. I scanned the road for the narrow pathway that was the shortcut to our house. Shit, do you see the path, Evie? Can’t see a damn thing with all this fog!

Don’t curse, Christian!

He was getting more and more of a dirty mouth every day. I suspected it was the influence of those brazen hicks from Iowa he’d started hanging around. Mother and Father would definitely not approve of such language, and if I didn’t get him to stop, he was going to slip up and regret it soon. Finally, a dark break in the shrubbery caught my eye.

Yeah, found it!

I took Terrance’s hand and bolted to the other side of the street, attempting to avoid any further driver-pedestrian mishaps.

We wound our way through the dried foliage and bald maples, following the thin path away from the Parsons’ farm towards our cabin cottage near Pleasant Pond. After reaching the top of a small mound, we could just barely make out puffs of chimney smoke coming from the roof of our home. By the time a clearer view of the house peeked through the trees the mouthwatering scent of Mom’s shortbread had wafted to our hungry noses.

There’s home, I exhaled.

You must have eyes like a hawk because I can’t see anything. I would have gotten us totally lost with all that damn haze back there.

I grumbled and rolled my eyes again, letting that one go. Wow, that smells good! Let’s go! Terrance snatched my hand, running full speed, as I tumbled behind. Christian lumbered down the hill, just as eager as Terrance to taste Mother’s cookies but too lazy to break his easy pace. Terrance burst through the unlocked door and didn’t let go of my hand until we reached the kitchen. I heard him draw in a deep breath, inhaling the enticing vapors. But, before his fingers reached the plate—

Don’t TOUCH those cookies, Terrance! Mom warned from inside the pantry. Instinctively, Terrance’s hand flew back to his side, and looked at me, mouthing, Can you believe her?

Ah, I see you didn’t eat them all, Christian said from behind, reaching between us.

Christian, those aren’t for you.

Mother was too late, though. By the time her words were spoken Christian had already crammed two cookies into his mouth, giving Terrance a crumb-filled grin. Terrance growled and chased him up the stairs.

Oh, Evelyn! Good, I’m glad you’re here, Mom sighed, stepping back from the pantry. Throw an apron on and help me. The Parsons are on their way. Your father should be back momentarily. He was helping George get changed for tonight before Eloise and the children pick him up.

I walked over to the rack by the oven and put on my yellow and green striped apron.

Robert will be coming, she said lightly, in only the way a mother trying to fix up her daughter could.

Mother, I groaned. We’re just friends!

Darling, he is such a nice— the phone rang, cutting her off. I rushed to answer it, for once glad to pick it up.

Hello?

At first, there was a silence followed by muffled giggling.

Hello, I asked again, flatly.

Yes, yes! came a girl’s sticky-sweet voice. Is Christian there?

He is. Whom may I ask is calling? I inquired, slightly peeved.

You can tell him this is Victoria, the girl’s voice became sultry. Do you know if he’s available tonight? That was enough, I’d had it.

No, he’s not available tonight. He’s spending the evening with his family, which is where you should be! I slammed the phone down.

Evelyn! That’s no way to speak to someone.

Well, I’m sick and tired of these vapid, amorous girls calling all the time for Christian! I threw my hands up. In spite of Mother’s disapproval, I could see a small smile cross her lips. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around me. I turned her gold wedding band with its intricate filigree design around her finger.

Close to my heart

I feel your tender embrace

Never to part

Like birds in June

This song, again? What about some Christmas tunes?

I happen to like this song very much, but you’re right. Very well, Bing Crosby should do the trick.

Is he new?

He’s quite the crooner and has a warmhearted voice that’s perfect for Christmas. Here, put this on the table and go upstairs and change. I’ve laid something out for you on your bed. I think it’s your size, she beamed, handing me a fruit and cheese platter to set on the dining table. Without a word I obediently took the platter into the adjacent room, then proceeded to my room.

Tell the boys to change as well! she called to me on my way up. When I turned the corner from the staircase, I knocked on Terrance’s door.

Yeah.

I turned the lock and opened the door to see Christian and Terrance hovering over a model boat.

Nina, Pinta? I asked, crossing my arms, leaning against the doorway.

Santa Maria-ahhh, Christian exhaled in a fake Spanish accent. We’re just about finished.

It’s Dad’s Christmas present, ya’ know, Terrence chipped.

Ah, well, it’s very nice. Anyway, Mom wants you to change, and hurry up, cause the Parsons will be here soon.

Ooo! That means Robert will be here, Terrance giggled. I shot him an intimidating glance.

So will Laura! I teased back.

Everything alright, Evie? Christian asked as I was closing the door. That was just like Christian, always protective, very paternal, despite being a total nuisance. Then again, I was the same way towards my brothers.

Yup, everything is fine, I lied, shutting the door.

I was going to tell him about Victoria’s potentially obscene phone call but thought it’d be better if he didn’t know. It wasn’t because I didn’t want my older brother to have girls after him. I mean, it would be a good change if a nice, decent girl like Grocer Tom’s modest daughter, Ingrid, were after him. Christian was a clever, good looking, athletic guy, and that ensured the attraction of many, if not always ideal, girls.

To be painfully honest, the reason I resented those endless invites was because I was jealous. It hurt to see my slightly older brother (well, maybe not so slight, he is three years my senior) be the recipient of all this attention, while I received nothing. I was almost seventeen and never had I once had an admirer. I was gangly and underdeveloped, yet the presence of baby fat could still be seen in my face. My freckles had begun to spread out and thin from the cluster they once were on my nose, but it wasn’t enough of a change to make boys notice me (not counting Robert, who’s basically a brother). At my age, my mother was a beauty queen. If that wasn’t enough to put my body image in a harsh perspective, my friends were already ahead of the curve, their pubescent bodies molding into womanly figures. As for me? Well, the only admirers I saw were the seniors who attended the high school Christian and I attended. Girls with red lips and cinched waists constantly approached me, pretending to be friendly, and bombarding me with questions about my brother. What he liked, what didn’t he like. They knew more about him than I did. And, let me tell you, it is so degrading to only be known as the little, red-haired sister of the Hunky left in-fielder, Christian Donnelly.

Yuck!

I let the back of my head hit the door as I locked it. My eyes met my reflection and I walked towards it. Yup, my freckles had almost completely dispersed, I noted as I stood, examining my face, inches from the mirror. Leaning away, I saw that the (almost) absence of freckles made my complexion more porcelain and even. Even the birthmark by my eye seemed to have shrunk (Terrance, Christian, and I all shared matching birthmarks—except they had theirs on their right and I had mine on my left—so whenever one of my brothers and I looked at each other they’d line up). Perhaps it was me rationalizing, but I thought I seemed prettier than the last time I checked.

OK, enough, now.

Turning towards my bed, I grabbed the dress and new black stockings Mother had put out. Unlike some mothers, mine didn’t try to dress me in frilly outfits that only befitted girls five and under. Since I had turned thirteen, whenever Mother had bought me clothing it was always relatively in style and age appropriate. The one I was about to put on was a forest green, satin dress. It had a modest front, with a square neckline and short sleeves. There was also a pink rose that had been sewed on to the front (Mother’s personal touch) and a bit of black velvet that hung loosely at the sides, which served as a kind of belt to wrap around my waist.

Donning my Christmas dress, I touched up my hair, placing tighter curls around my head and securing them with bobby pins. When my hair was pleasing enough, I opened my vanity drawer and brought out my little box of jewelry and makeup. Mother didn’t allow me to wear makeup most of the year, but this was a special occasion and, thus, a little rouge, powder, and lipstick was allowed. The last items needed to complete my look were my grandmother’s pearl earrings, which Mother had given me for my birthday this year. As I stood away from the mirror, I gave myself an overview and concluded that I appeared decent, though not as pretty as I’d hoped. How I wished I was allowed to wear eyeliner and perfume, but that was for when I turned eighteen. I pondered how I’d look when I reached that age, filled out a bit more, and grown into my features.

I opened the door cautiously and emerged from my room into the hall. I could already feel my hands getting clammy, yet no later than two seconds after I exited someone whistled in my direction. Stunned, I turned to see my father standing in the doorway of my parents’ room, buckling his cuff links.

Father! When did you get here?

Oh, about ten minutes ago. Your mother rushed me upstairs to get ready. Look at you, all grown up and beautiful.

Oh, thanks.

Every day you become less of a little girl and more of a lady. What am I going to do to keep you?

You could always invent a time machine and go back in time, I suppose.

Yes, but then I’d get lost, he chuckled. Well, aren’t you going to give me a hug?

Sure, I walked over and embraced him. I may have become more of a lady, but I still only managed to come up to his waist.

Father, watch the hair, I put my hand to my head. He always gave such massive bear hugs.

Sorry, sorry, he let go and gave me a kiss on my forehead. I’ll see you downstairs. Why don’t you warm up your viola? The Parsons will want a performance from you and your mother tonight, I’m sure.

Really? I asked, begrudgingly. I didn’t like being put on the spot.

Yes. Now go, he turned and pushed me with his large, knotty hands into the hall.

Descending the stairs, all was quiet in the house, which meant that everyone was still getting ready and that the Parsons had not yet arrived. I enjoyed the house when it was like this, still and calm. I could walk through the rooms undisturbed (rearranging and helping to fix the decorations and figurines), and reflecting upon the year and of Christmases past. Almost everything in our house, from furniture to dishes to knickknacks, was some shade of dark blue. Mother absolutely adored blue and nearly every room in the house—kitchen, living room, and bathrooms—reflected this. She said she favored blue because it reminded her of the highland landscape, where she had been raised. As I neared the kitchen from the dining room, I caught a glimpse of Mother’s skirt ascending the staircase. She had turned into such a homemaker. From stories I had been told, Mother’s formidable years were filled with outings to social events and parties. Her family was well-off, her mother the heiress of a tea company, the only child of middle-aged parents. Though I never met them she never spoke an unkind word about them. When she showed promise as a cellist, she was sent to an all-girls music school in New York at fifteen. There she excelled, devoting all her time to her music, and eventually earned a scholarship to an exclusive music school in Switzerland. Mother always talked fondly of her time in Switzerland, calling it the Dream sequence of her life, where mornings were met with serene mountains and aromatic coffee, and