The Gates of Evangeline by Hester Young

I’d put her at twenty.
    â€œHi, Leeann.” I return her toothy grin and stoop to pet the dog. “This place smells heavenly.” Although I’ve never been a fan of Country French décor, the whitewashed cupboards, cart of potted herbs, and hanging rack of copper pots provide the room with a homey sweetness. On the wooden island, Leeann has laid out a plate of fish, along with half-empty bowls of collards and something orange. I help myself and join the young family at the table.
    â€œThis is the lady from New York I was tellin’ y’all about,” Leeann informs them. “Charlotte, right?”
    â€œI go by Charlie.” I wave at the little girl. Her father, a long-limbed young man who doesn’t look much older than Leeann, leans over her plate cutting her fish into pieces. Beside him, the mother shifts in her chair and regards me neutrally. I see now that she is very pregnant.
    â€œCharlie, this is Paulette.” Leeann puts her hands on the pregnant woman’s shoulders. “She’s the housekeepa. Well, for a couple more months, anyway. She and Benny here got a baby boy comin’ March first.”
    â€œCongratulations,” I say, but the word feels awkward in my mouth.
Of course there would be kids here. And a pregnant woman.
I don’t know why this surprises me.
    I turn to Paulette’s husband, forcing myself to be pleasant. “Do you work here too, Benny?”
    He nods. “I look afta da cars, drive Mrs. Deveau around, fix stuff what breaks.”
    Their daughter eyes me as she shovels chunks of fish into her mouth with her fingers. In a few years, she will be a homely child, but for now her wide-apart eyes and big forehead are still cute.
    â€œBailey, use a fork.” Benny hands her one. The dog makes an astute canine calculation and plops himself down by Bailey, who continues studying me.
    â€œI’m tree years old,” she announces loudly. “Ma name is Bailey Thomas. You should wear makeup.”
    â€œBailey!” Paulette exclaims. “You act right!” She looks at me, apologetic. “I’m sorry. We still workin’ on manners.”
    â€œNo problem. She probably has a point.” It’s embarrassing to have a three-year-old tell me I’m not keeping up my appearance, but Bailey is right. I’ve let myself go. If I’m going to run with the Deveaus, I need to look like money.
    â€œDon’t you mind Bailey. She the li’l princess around here, ain’tcha, mamzelle?” Leeann coos.
    Bailey swallows her food down with a gulp of milk. “I’m tree years old,” she reminds me, a bit aggressively, as if I might accuse her of being two.
    I put on an impressed face. “Three is pretty old.” Older than Gabriel ever got to be.
    â€œIt’s not that old.” Bailey frowns. “On ma next birthdee, I’m gone be four.”
    â€œShe the same age as ma li’l man,” Leeann tells me.
    I can’t conceal my surprise at that one. I knew I was an older mother, but seriously? How can Leeann have a three-year-old?
    â€œYou look too young,” I say.
    â€œI’m twen’y-three.”
    I bet she didn’t even mean to have him. I bet he was an accident and yet there she was, popping out a baby before she could even legally drink. Why does she get to have a child and I don’t?
    â€œDoes your son live here, too?” I ask. If I have to watch him frolicking about every day, I might have a breakdown.
    â€œNot anymore.” Leeann looks awfully proud of herself. “We live in town now, with ma boyfriend. Those cottages get a li’l cramped.”
    â€œFor true,” Benny agrees. “I dunno how we all gone fit.”
    â€œSo, Charlie, you a writa?” Paulette asks with polite interest.
    I do my best to sell the plantation-home story. Fortunately, the subject is dry enough to kill any further lines of questioning. Leeann switches the