Chapter 2: The Morning Unraveling
Soleil woke like God Himself had tapped her shoulder. The deep, pre-dawn grey was just giving way to a soft, blush-colored light. And she was tangled. Completely, inextricably entangled.
Sometime in the deep of the night, she’d turned. Now her face was buried in the solid wall of Kordell’s chest, her nose pressed against warm skin and the sharp lines of ink. His arm was locked around her, his hand slipped under the back of her camisole, his palm a brand against the bare skin of her spine. Her own leg was thrown over his hip, their bodies slotted together with a shocking, intimate precision. They fit. Like two pieces of a puzzle snapped into place. The boys were splayed across them both—Sire diagonally over their legs, Saint curled like a comma against her back, his pacifier pressed to her shoulder blade. A hot, breathing, weighty knot of humanity.
She lay still for a long moment, listening to the syncopated rhythm of their breaths, feeling the steady thump of Kordell’s heart against her cheek. This wasn't the frightened stiffness of last night. This was a deep, animal comfort so profound it scared her more than his sneer ever had.
Slowly, with surgeon-like care, she began to extricate herself. She lifted her leg from his hip. He made a low, grumbling sound in his sleep, and his arm tightened, pulling her flush against him again. Her breath hitched. Then, just as slowly, his grip loosened, his hand sliding from her back to rest heavily on the sheet between them. She slithered out from under Sire’s limb, easing Saint’s head onto a pillow.
She stood by the bed, looking down at the three of them in the muddled light. Kordell’s face, in sleep, had lost all its sharp edges. He looked younger. The boys were limp, surrendered. A fierce, protective impulse surged in her chest, so strong it was dizzying.
In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face. In the kitchen, she started the coffee, the gurgle and drip loud in the silent house. Then she got to work: grits bubbling in salted water, a pan sizzling with sliced andouille, a bowl of eggs cracked and whisked. The rituals were a prayer. The scents of browning sausage and brewing coffee began to weave through the cottage, displacing the night’s quiet.
She set the table with the chipped but clean plates, laid out forks and spoons, poured orange juice into two plastic cups and coffee into a heavy mug. She plated the food—a mound of cheesy grits, a scramble of eggs flecked with green onion and sausage, the links fanned to the side. It looked like a picture from a magazine she’d once torn out and saved. A picture of a home.
Taking a steadying breath, she walked back to the bedroom. The light was stronger now, cutting across the bed. She approached Kordell’s side. “Daddy?” she whispered. “Breakfast is ready.”
His dark eyes opened instantly. No grogginess. Just a sudden, aware darkness focused on her. He looked at her, then at the boys stirring around him. Something flashed across his face—a foreign, unguarded emotion she couldn’t name. It was gone in a second, replaced by a lazy intensity.
Before she could step back, his hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. He yanked.
She gasped, tumbling onto the bed, half on top of him. Sire yelled, “Whoa!” Saint popped up, blinking.
Kordell rolled, pinning her beneath him. He was a heavy, warm weight. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. “Smell like coffee and home,” he muttered, his voice sleep-rough and private. His hands roamed over her ribs, her waist, the flare of her hip through her thin shorts, a blatant, claiming exploration. The boys, now fully awake, giggled, scrambling to climb on top of them both, making a heap.
Then he lifted his head. His eyes held hers, a silent question. He dipped his head and kissed her. It wasn’t like the closed-mouth press from last night. This was slower, deeper. He tasted like sleep and mint. He took his time, his lips moving over hers until hers parted on a soft sigh, and he took the invitation, his tongue sweeping in just once, a devastating, possessive stroke. The boys’ giggles faded into curious silence. When he finally pulled back, her lips felt swollen, thoroughly kissed. He searched her face, his own unreadable, then gave a short nod. “Alright. Let’s eat.”
The release was as sudden as the capture. He got up, swatting Sire’s behind playfully. “Move, tiger. Mama cooked.”
They all filed into the kitchen and just… stopped. Stood in a line looking at the set table, the steaming plates waiting at four places. It was a scene so normal, so domesticated, it seemed to baffle them. Kordell recovered first, pulling out his chair with a scrape. Soleil quickly lifted Saint into his high chair, securing the tray.
They ate with a focused silence that was almost reverent. Sire shoved a massive forkful of grits into his mouth, his eyes wide. “Mmm!”
Kordell ate methodically, but she saw the way his shoulders relaxed slightly with each bite. As he chewed, he watched her. Soleil, out of a lifetime of habit, bowed her head slightly, closing her eyes. Thank you for this food. Thank you for this peace. Please let it last. Her lips moved in a silent whisper.
Sire noticed. “What you doin’, Mama?”
She opened her eyes, smiling softly. “Just thanking God for our food, baby.”
Kordell froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He stared at her. The room went quiet again, the only sound Saint’s enthusiastic banging of his spoon. Kordell’s gaze was a physical weight. Then he slowly set his fork down.
“Stop,” he commanded, his voice low.
Sire froze, a sausage link dangling from his fingers.
“Bow your heads.” It wasn’t a request.
Kordell bowed his own head, his locs falling forward. He was silent for a long moment, as if searching for words buried deep. Then he began, his voice a rough, low murmur that vibrated in the quiet kitchen.
“Lord. We thank you for this food. For the hands that prepared it.” A pause. “For this… morning. Watch over us. Keep us… together. Amen.”
It was clumsy. Gruff. It was the most beautiful thing Soleil had ever heard.
“Amen,” she whispered, her throat tight.
“Amen!” Sire parroted, then immediately went back to shoveling eggs.
Kordell picked up his fork, avoiding her eyes, but the line of his neck was tense, as if he’d just shown her something profoundly secret.
After they ate, he disappeared into the bedroom while she cleaned. She was elbow-deep in suds when he emerged, dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He looked violently handsome, all sharp edges and restrained power.
He walked to the table and dropped two things in front of her with a soft thump.
A set of keys on a heavy fob. And a stack of cash, folded and thick. More money than she’d ever held in her life.
“Truck’s the black Silverado out back. Keys. That’s for you, them, the house.” He spoke in curt phrases. “I need work socks. The heavy kind. More bootlaces. Razors. And… something. For Granny. You’ll know it when you see it.”
He was trusting her with a vehicle. With an obscene amount of his money. Her fingers were pruned and wet. She wiped them on her shorts, staring at the pile.
“Get what you need,” he continued, his voice dropping. “Clothes. Shoes. Whatever women need. Things for the boys. And anything you want for this place to make it…” He glanced around the clean, but stark, kitchen. “A home.”
The word hung between them, charged and fragile.
She shyly picked up the keys, their metal cool in her palm. She folded the cash, the bills crisp under her fingers. “Okay.”
He stepped into her space, cradled her face in his hands, and kissed her again. This one was different—firm, purposeful, a seal on a deal. He kissed Sire on the top of his head, then Saint, who grabbed his locs with sticky fingers. “Listen to Mama.”
And then he was gone, the screen door slapping shut behind him.
The silence he left behind was enormous. Soleil stood there, clutching the keys and the cash, the weight of the day settling on her.
An hour later, after wrestling two wild boys through changes of clothes and convincing Sire that yes, wearing shoes was mandatory for town, she had them loaded into the cab of the massive black truck. It was pristine, the leather smelling new, the engine a powerful rumble. She felt like an impostor in the driver’s seat.
Mireaux proper was a cluster of low buildings baking in the midday sun. She parked in front of a general store called Guidry’s, her heart pounding. Taking a firm hold of Saint on her hip and Sire’s hand, she ventured in.
“Well, look what the gator dragged in.” A middle-aged woman behind the counter smiled. “You must be Granny’s new project. And you brought the tornadoes with you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Soleil said, managing a smile. “I’m Soleil.”
“I know who you are, cher. Everybody does. What can I get for y’all?”
The trip became a chaotic ballet. Sire immediately tried to climb a display of canned beans. Saint, placed in a cart, began hurling bags of rice onto the floor. Soleil moved with a calm she didn’t feel, using a soft but firm voice. “Sire Baptreaux, you put those down. Saint, no, honey.” She’d redirect, distract, and when Sire openly defied her, she simply stopped, knelt to his level, and said, “We can go home right now with nothing. Or you can help Mama. Your choice.”
He glared, a perfect mimic of his father’s expression, then slumped. “I’ll help.”
She got Kordell’s socks, laces, razors. She found a beautiful jar of local wildflower honey for Granny. She added things to the cart: a soft, yellow throw blanket. Two new pillows. A set of plain white curtains to replace the dusty blinds. A small, framed print of sunflowers she found in a dusty corner. For the boys, she chose new pajamas, a set of wooden blocks, and a stuffed alligator that made Saint stop crying instantly.
For herself, she felt a pang of guilt. She picked out three practical, inexpensive sundresses, underwear, a pair of jeans, some simple tops. Nothing like the provocative things she’d usually choose.
At the fabric counter, a bolt of soft, cream-colored cotton with a tiny faded lavender print caught her eye. It felt like happiness under her fingers. She bought three yards, along with some matching thread, on a whim she didn't fully understand.
The cashier rang it all up, her eyes widening slightly at the total. Soleil calmly pulled the thick stack of cash from her purse and peeled off the bills. The woman’s gaze flickered to her, then to the boys, with new respect. Or maybe it was curiosity.
“You takin’ over for Doretha, then?” the woman asked casually as she bagged.
“I’m just the nanny,” Soleil said softly, hoisting Saint higher on her hip.
The woman just smiled, a knowing look in her eye. “If you say so, cher.”
Loading the squirming boys and the bags into the truck was its own ordeal. By the time she pulled back onto the shell road leading to the cottage, she was sweaty, exhausted, and strangely exhilarated.
Back home, she put the boys down for a nap—a battle that ended with them conked out together on the couch—and began to put her purchases away. She hid Kordell’s things in his dresser. She put the honey on the counter for Granny. Then, with a feeling akin to sacredness, she changed the bedroom.
She took down the dusty blinds and hung the new white curtains. They billowed softly in the afternoon breeze, filling the room with a clean, diffused light. She spread the yellow blanket across the foot of the bed. She placed the sunflowers on the dresser, nudging the bullet casings aside. The room was still his—still smelled like him, held his things—but it felt softer. Lighter.
She stood in the center of it, the bolt of lavender-print cotton in her arms. She didn’t know how to sew, not really. But she wanted to learn. She wanted to make something for this house, for this room, with her own hands.
Down the hall, she could hear the soft, sleepy snuffles of the boys. Outside, the cicadas had begun their evening song. She hugged the fabric to her chest, a strange, solid feeling of rightness settling in her bones. This wasn't pretending anymore. She was building something real. And for the first time in years, the fear was quiet, and something else, tender and green, was pushing its way through the cracks in her heart.
And for the first time in years, the fear was quiet, and something else, tender and green, was pushing its way through the cracks in her heart. She laid the fabric on the dresser and went to the kitchen.
She browned chicken thighs in the big Dutch oven, the sizzle filling the quiet house. She chopped onions, bell pepper, celery, the rhythmic thump of the knife a calming mantra. She added garlic, tomatoes, broth, a handful of thyme from a plant on the windowsill, and let it all simmer into a thick, fragrant stew. The scent wrapped around the cottage like a promise.
The boys woke just as she was wiping the counter. They stumbled into the kitchen, hair wild, eyes bleary. “Mama, I’m hungry,” Sire announced, climbing onto a chair.
“Me! Me!” Saint echoed, raising his arms.
She made them grilled cheese sandwiches, cutting Saint’s into tiny soldiers, and sat with them to eat her own. Sunlight pooled on the worn tabletop. Sire talked with his mouth full about a frog he’d seen weeks ago. Soleil listened, nodding, wiping Saint’s chin. This, too, felt like a prayer.
After lunch and cleanup, she gathered the honey and the bolt of fabric. “We’re going to see Granny,” she told the boys, helping them into their shoes.
“Big House!” Sire yelled, charging out the door. Soleil scooped up Saint, balancing the items, and followed him onto the shell path that wound through the oaks toward the main plantation house.
Granny was on the side porch, shelling peas into a large bowl. Her fingers moved with a swift, precise economy. She looked up, her face breaking into a wide smile. “Sunshine. And my little heathens. Bring yourselves up here.”
The porch was deep and shady, furnished with mismatched wicker and lined with ferns. An old, black sewing machine sat under a window.
“Brought you something,” Soleil said softly, offering the jar of honey.
Granny took it, holding it up to the light. The golden contents glowed. “Ain’t this pretty. Much obliged, cher.” Her eyes fell on the fabric. “And what you got there?”
“I… I wanted to make something. For the house. But I don’t really know how.” Soleil felt suddenly foolish, holding the cloth like a child with a pretend project.
“Well, that’s what I’m for.” Granny set the peas aside and patted the seat beside her. “Sit. Boys, the cookie jar’s in the kitchen. Don’t wreck nothin’.”
Sire whooped and dragged Saint inside. Granny guided Soleil’s hands, showing her how to thread the machine, how to pin a straight hem. “Don’t fight it. Guide it. Like tendin’ to a stubborn man.” The machine clattered to life, a loud, reassuring sound. Soleil, under Granny’s patient direction, began to sew a simple curtain panel for the kitchen window.
The back door slammed. “Mama, you out here?”
A man stepped onto the porch, tall and broad with a magnificent head of silver dreads tied back. He moved with a quiet, immense authority. His eyes, the same dark brown as Kordell’s, swept over Soleil.
“This is Soleil, Beau,” Granny said without looking up. “Kordell’s nanny. Soleil, this is my husband, Beau. Everybody calls him Big Papa.”
Beau Baptreaux nodded slowly, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Heard about you.” His voice was a deep, calm rumble. “You straightened my great-grandboys out yet?”
“I’m trying, sir,” Soleil said, her voice barely above the machine’s hum.
“She’s doin’ more than tryin’,” Granny murmured, examining her stitch line. “She’s doin’.”
More family arrived as the afternoon deepened. A cousin dropping off some fish. An aunt bringing a pie. Each person was introduced with a quick, casual familiarity. They all looked at Soleil with open, assessing curiosity, but Granny’s presence beside her acted as a shield of approval. They asked about the boys, about the fabric. The questions were simple, never prying into her past.
Sire and Saint, buzzed on sugar, ran wild with other children who materialized from the sprawling property. Their laughter echoed, blending with the grown folks’ talk. Soleil finished her hem, the straight line imperfect but wholly hers. She felt, for a dizzying moment, woven into the tapestry of noise and life on that porch.
“Best get back ’fore them boys turn to complete animals,” Granny said as the light began to slant long and gold. “And ’fore Kordell gets home to an empty house.”
Walking back, the boys were sluggish, sticky. Soleil carried a sleepy Saint, Sire dragging his feet beside her. The cottage was quiet and warm, still smelling of the simmering stew. She ran their bath, the ritual now familiar. She washed away the cookie crumbs and porch dust, her gentle hands calming their overstimulated squirms. She dressed them in their new pajamas, soft blue cotton.
She was reading to them on the couch when the truck tires crunched on the shell outside. The door opened.
Kordell stepped in and stopped.
His eyes moved slowly across the room. They took in the new yellow blanket folded on the armchair. They traveled to the kitchen window, now framed by the cream and lavender curtain she’d made, fluttering in the evening breeze. They fell on the boys, clean and quiet in new pajamas, then on Soleil, curled on the couch with them.
He didn’t speak. He just stood there, his work boots dusty, his expression shifting through something too complex to name. Surprise. Disbelief. A slow, dawning absorption. He looked, for a second, utterly unmoored.
He walked across the room, his steps deliberate. He didn’t stop at the boys. He came to the couch, leaned down, and put his hands on either side of Soleil’s face. His palms were rough, calloused. He tilted her head up and kissed her.
This kiss was not a morning claim or a farewell seal. It was deep, searching, and profoundly quiet. It was the wordless articulation of everything he’d seen. His lips moved over hers with a hungry tenderness that stole the air from her lungs. One hand slid back into her curls, cradling her head. The other gripped her shoulder, holding her in place, as if she might vanish. She could taste the day on him—dust, gasoline, the faint metallic tang of work.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. His breathing was slightly uneven. “Hey,” he whispered, the single syllable charged.
“Hey,” she breathed back.
He kissed her once more, briefly, then turned to the boys, ruffling their hair. “Y’all give Mama trouble?”
“No, Daddy!” Sire said, beaming.
Kordell headed for the shower. The sound of the water running was the cue for Soleil to move. She dished up the stew into bowls, the rich, savory smell filling the kitchen. She set the table, the same careful placement as the morning.
He emerged, dressed in sweats, his locs damp. They all sat. He looked at the food, then at her. He reached out his hands. Soleil placed her hand in his, feeling the rough warmth. Sire grabbed her other hand and Kordell’s free one, completing the circle with a giggling Saint.
Kordell bowed his head. The silence was comfortable this time, not strained. “Lord. Thank you. For this home. For this food. For… her. Keep us safe. Together. Amen.”
“Amen,” Soleil whispered, squeezing his hand. He didn’t let go for a long moment.
Dinner was a warm, messy, peaceful affair. Afterward, she cleaned up while he played on the floor with the boys, wrestling gently, his low laughter a new sound in the house. She showered, the hot water easing the day’s tiredness from her muscles. When she returned in her camisole and shorts, the boys were already in the big bed, fighting sleep.
Kordell was pulling on a fresh black t-shirt. He saw her, his gaze tracking a droplet of water that slid from her damp hair down her neck. “Gotta go handle somethin’ for my grandfather,” he said, his voice low. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for nobody.”
He came to her, his hands finding her hips. He kissed her goodbye, a soft, lingering press that felt like a promise of return. “Don’t wait up.”
He kissed the sleeping boys and was gone. She locked the door, the bolt sliding home with a solid thunk. The house felt very large and very quiet. She climbed into bed, the boys immediately migrating to her warmth. She lay awake in the dark, listening to the night sounds, her mind tracing the contours of the day—the sewing machine’s clatter, Granny’s wise eyes, the weight of Kordell’s look when he saw the curtain.
She must have dozed off. The feeling of the bed dipping, the cool kiss of night air, then the solid heat of a body sliding in behind her, woke her. It was deep night, the moon high.
Kordell. He smelled of soap and the cool outdoors, his skin slightly damp from a fresh shower. He didn’t say a word. He just molded himself against her back, his arm hooking around her waist, his hand spreading wide over her stomach. He pulled her firmly into the curve of his body, his face burying in her hair. He let out a long, slow breath, a sigh that seemed to release the entire day from his bones.
His hold was possessive, but also… needy. As if he was anchoring himself to her. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against her back.
“You sewed that?” His voice was a rough whisper in the dark, barely audible.
“Yes,” she whispered back.
His arm tightened. His lips brushed the sensitive skin behind her ear. “It’s pretty.” A pause. “Everything is.”
He didn’t speak again. He just held her, his breathing gradually deepening into sleep. Soleil lay awake, feeling the weight of his arm, the shelter of his body. The tender, green thing in her heart unfurled a little more, reaching toward his quiet, steadfast heat in the dark.