Lá Bealtaine [open thread, come one come all]

[mnemosyne]

"You're not going to the bonfire, are you?" Late evening, a few days before the actual event. Éva knows it as nothing more than that. Clarifies a moment later, " - at the Carey farm." when Chris glances at her, framed in the half-open doorway to his corner office. It is well after nine p.m. and the sun has set and the offices are quiet and dark. The janitorial staff spread out through the building, pushing their carts, separately recycling out from the trash in the trash cans, turning off lights and coffee pots.

He looks up, over his reading glasses at her, writing notes longhand on a yellow legal pad in the center of his desk. Quirks a half-smile. "Nature and I don't get along." The gleam of the barristers lamp smears yellow over the lenses. "Anyway, we have trial next Monday. They'd settle for fifteen, but no way it's going to. Stevens told me he'd rather pay us one hundred thousand dollars than give Reggie one red cent."

She makes a noise in the back of her throat; lifts slender shoulders in an eloquent, wordless shrug. They will take Stevens' one hundred thousand dollars, if he insists. A matter of pride or principle.

"Do you think it'll stay PG rated for the first hour or two?" Her voice is quiet, her eyes dark and steady. Precision threaded through it, wrapped in a cage of quiet humor - a private sort she shares with him through habit of long association. His brows rise, and he's ready with a retort when she explains the inquiry, in four words. "Ellie wants to go."

"If you need a sitter, I'm pretty sure Kim's available."

"She's not going?"

"We told her we'd offer matching funds equal to whatever she saved before her trip to Europe this summer."

--

The night of the celebration, a hybrid Lexus sedan - dark, unremarkable - is parked fallow field designated by the Carey family as guest parking for the evening's festivities. Mother and daughter emerge. They have each other's look: both dark-eyed and dark-haired, with a stillness about them that can easily be read as reticence. The little girl's skin is duskier than her mother's. Several shades darker, and there's more black than brown to the swing of her long straight hair.

Impatient, Ellie waits while her mother delves into the trunk for the huge Tupperware serving tray of pastries they bring as offerings to the gods, or at least the hungry crowd gathering. The trunk closes with a distinct click, and a moment later Éva is crouched on the soft, sinking soil of the front field in front of her daughter. Going over the rules.

What time is it. Seven-thirty.
When do you check in. Every half-hour.
When are we leaving. ten thirty.
Stay within sight of the house.

Ellie goes off, then, running up ahead of her mother, searching through the crowd for her friends, ponytail jouncing in her wake. Éva follows behind, carrying the big tray in two hands, looking for the refreshment tables to offload it. Sarah Carey's there, flushed from sampling the home-brew, gleaming with pleasure at all the guests on her family's land, the brightness of the festivities. When Éva hands over the tray, Sarah claps her hands together and unlatches then lifts off the like, exclaiming over the triangles of baklava and slices of apple štrudla.

From Rozsa? Sarah Carey inquires, and Éva confirms. It was rhetorical, of course. Thank her for me.

Oh, no need, assures Éva. She'll be over later. As soon as the sitter arrives.