Hello, my name is Eve and I am a Canadian author who usually writes hot romance with a paranormal or sci-fi twist. Lately, I've been delving more into Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Women's Fiction (#PWF) with heroines that run the gamut from kick-ass to needing a little shove to find that inner spark.

I am prolific, as I love to write, and while I don't always know what my mind is going to come up with next, I can promise it will entertaining and most likely a little twisted. Thanks so much for coming by and checking me out. Happy reading!

Halfway There by Eve Langlais

A Paranormal Women's Fiction novel for anyone who thought adventure and magic stopped at forty. Guess again, it's just the beginning.

I never expected I'd be one of those people who had a midlife crisis. Sure, I'm over forty, and married, but my kids are grown and moved out. Life is steady, if predictably boring.

That all changes when my husband asks for a divorce and my whole world crashes. Everything I thought I knew, everything I am, gone in an instant.

But I am not about to give up. After all, at my age, technically, I'm only halfway there.

I am ready to tackle my do-over; my chance to become the me I've always dreamed of. Starting with moving into my late grandma's cottage and adopting a new kitten.

However, my new life is a little odder than expected. Old books suddenly appearing in my house. Neighbors going missing. A supposed lake monster, and a strange man who likes to skulk around with an axe.

I'm going to need to lean on my friends, new and old, to help me navigate my midlife crisis. Together maybe we will find a way to beat the family curse ruining my second chance at life.


Eve Langlais is an accomplished hybrid author with the notable distinction of having earned her letters as a USA Today Bestselling Author and a New York Times Bestselling Author. As a curator and reader, I have been long-familiar with Eve's reputation as a stellar storyteller of paranormal tales. Therefore, I was delighted when she agreed to join the Magic & Mystery StoryBundle with Halfway There, a paranormal women's fiction novel.

Are you tired of twentysomething heroines? Cozy up beneath a comforter and burn the midnight oil—magic and adventure don't stop at forty. Naomi Rousseaux's midlife crisis is just the beginning. Come along with our heroine on a voyage of unexpected discoveries. If lake monsters and skulking axemen aren't intriguing enough, consider the wonderful whimsey of a kitten named Grisou.

Halfway There is the first novel in the three-book Midlife Mulligan series. – Melissa Snark



  • "Having never read this author before, I wasn't sure what to expect... what I was Not expecting was to fall in love with her writing, her characters, this story.... This book did Not disappoint! I will definitely by getting the next book & diving into her other series, while I wait."

    – Reader review
  • "Is she going crazy or are other things at work here?

    If you love and good paranormal with a lot of twists and a great story line then this book is for you."

    – Reader review



"I don't want to be with you anymore."

The declaration hit me, a hammered fist to the heart. I stopped breathing as I stared at my husband of more than twenty years. Married straight out of college, we were supposed to grow old together.

"I don't understand."

I really didn't. Where had this come from? I'd been the best of wives. Having seen my parents going at it from a young age, I'd decided early on in my relationship that I would be the peacemaker, meaning I tended to agree with anything Martin said—even if I didn't agree. It wasn't worth the fight, especially since he didn't like to lose.

"What's not to understand, Naomi? It's quite simple. I want a divorce. You know, that thing you file for when a person doesn't want to be in a marriage anymore." He spoke tersely. Not for the first time.

Usually, I let it slide right over me. A long time ago I'd made sure his insults couldn't touch anywhere important. It wasn't working this time. He'd said the one word I couldn't ignore.

"Did you say a divorce?"

When had he decided this? Because I'd had no inkling when I woke up that morning—at the same time as him because he didn't like it if I slept longer than he did. As per our routine, he said not a word as he rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. While he did his business, I slipped on some slippers and headed downstairs to make his coffee with freshly ground beans. Once it started percolating, I tackled the toast. Not too dark, slightly buttered with the real stuff, not margarine—which he held in low regard. By the time he came downstairs, his routine precise down to almost the minute, I'd plated it along with his sausage and sunny side up eggs. Martin was particular about his meals, and I'd had more than two decades to perfect them.

I stared at this man who let me make him a freaking breakfast, knowing he was going to tell me he wanted out of our marriage. A spark of anger lit inside, but I ignored it.

For now.

"Yes, I said a divorce." His voice held a hint of impatience. "You can't tell me you didn't see this coming."

Actually, I hadn't. Martin was always unhappy. About everything. It might have gotten worse in the last few years, but I'd attributed it to him turning fifty. He had a few years on me, which might seem odd since we met in college, but he didn't go to school right after he graduated.

"I never thought about us ever separating." A lie, actually. I had, more than once, imagined a life without his miserable comments and attitude. On many occasions, I'd cursed his existence in my head. I'd wondered what it would be like if he didn't come home from work one day. He wasn't in the best shape. Men his age died of heart attacks all the time.

The moment the thought even crossed my mind, I'd feel guilty. How dare I wish for his death! So what if he didn't make me happy like the heroes in my romance books? This was my marriage, my reality, and unlike so many other couples, I would make our relationship work. 'Til death do us part.

I kept my gaze from straying to the wooden block of knives.

"Well, I have thought of leaving for a while now," Martin declared, and I was offended.

What did he have to complain about? The spark of annoyance flared brighter. "I've always done everything you asked of me." Ironed his clothes. Made his meals. Cleaned his house. Had sex once a week. Blew him if I was on my period. I took care of everything but wiping his ass and doing his job as a real estate agent.

For a moment the words of my best friend, whom I'd not talked to in over ten years, played inside my head, "You're a doormat. A slap in the face to feminists everywhere."

My cruel reply at the time? "You're just jealous I'm married and got out of small-town hell and you didn't." A horrible thing to say, and I'd burned with shame after. I couldn't have said why I didn't apologize.

Most likely because she'd told the truth and I didn't want to admit I was wrong. How long since I'd last spoken to Tricia? Too long. Because of the man currently expounding on the reasons why he didn't want me.

"Even you can't be so stupid as to realize we have nothing in common."

I simmered, and words I rarely dared speak aloud spilled forth. "And whose fault is that?" I'd tried everything they told me to do in the books, setting up date nights with dinner followed by an activity. Except it didn't quite work as planned.

Bowling was a failure. Martin refused to wear the shoes that other people had worn. Just like he'd outright said no to painting because it was dumb, pottery was messy, escape rooms were juvenile. He had a reason to hate everything, meaning date night most often failed, if he even bothered to come home. Since his promotion a few years ago, he'd been working longer hours. When I dared to say something, he pointed out he was the breadwinner in the family.

Not entirely true. I had a part-time job that brought in some extra money, but mine didn't pay the larger bills, and I hadn't always worked.

Martin put in the long hours so I could stay home with our children. I appreciated it when the kids were growing up. Felt the guilt that because he worked so hard, he missed the pivotal moments in their lives. But because of his sacrifice, I'd been there for them with every milestone and every hurt. The one thing I could never fix was their obvious pain at their father's indifference.

When they were young, Daddy came home, ate dinner, and sat in his chair. It didn't change much as they got older, except the yelling got louder and more frequent.

I consoled myself with the reminder that at least they had two parents living together and a home. According to many books, I did the right thing.

Yet the moment Geoffrey and Wendy graduated high school, they moved out. Not just out of the house but out of the state. Some days I lied to myself and blamed it on the fact they wanted to go to college somewhere cooler than a small town in Vermont. The truth was they left because they couldn't stand being part of our family.

Being near Martin more specifically. With me, as they entered their teen years, they became indifferent. As adults, we were almost strangers.

I heard from them occasionally, but those conversations were short and stilted, painful beyond belief, so I was almost relieved it didn't happen more often. The guilt would hit me that I didn't reach out. Then the pity party would start because my own children hated me.

Could I blame them? I also hated myself.

I hated Martin, too. However, panic at the thought of him leaving made me say, "If you're unhappy, we can get some counseling. Fix things." Because as much as I disliked him, now that he'd offered me an out, I suddenly didn't want it.

The thought of being alone…

I tried vainly to think of something, anything, to cancel out the roaring in my ears. The heavy sensation pressing on me from all sides. The debilitating dismay as I saw my life, my future, being flushed away to make room for what Martin wanted.

It was always about what he wanted.

For a half-second, a rebellious thought overcame my anxiety. Why is everything always about him? What about me?

The ember of rage flared brighter than ever, yet I remained cold.

"I don't want to fix things." His short, clipped words brimmed with anger. "Get this through your thick skull. I don't want to be with you anymore. You're boring. Fat. Stupid. I mean look at you." He waved a hand, and his face twisted in disgust. "You don't even try to look nice anymore."

Another verbal slap and a part of me wanted to argue, and then I glanced down at my outfit. An oversized shirt to hide the bulging middle and stretchy leggings in a soft faded cotton. I'd stopped wearing denim a long time ago due to chafing. I'd gained a lot of weight during my pregnancies. Even more in the past few years as boredom put me on the couch.

While I'd gotten a job once the kids hit high school, Martin had refused my request to go back to work full-time. He said it would make him look bad. I was secretly glad, given the idea of working more than twenty hours a week for minimum wage meant I'd have a hard time keeping up with the housework. Perhaps had I gotten a better paying job I might have splurged and hired some help. Except, as Martin liked to remind me, I wasn't qualified to do anything. I was a wife. A mom. A homemaker.

"—a slob. Why do you think we don't have sex anymore?"

I bit my tongue before I said what first came to mind. I wasn't allowed to speak about his problems below the belt. "I've offered."

I had, out of some sense of obligation and because sometimes my books had some steamy parts that reminded me of how I used to like sex when I was younger.

"And I said no to those offers because you disgust me. The sight of your body turns me off."

The cruelty of his statement stole my breath. Martin had always possessed an acerbic manner, and it only got stronger as we got older. But this level of meanness… When did the hating begin?

The cold in me intensified as my rage overflowed. How dare he speak to me like this? Something in me rebelled. "I thought we stopped having sex because you couldn't get it up anymore."

It was mean. Horrible of me. Making fun of a condition that came with age and a relief that I no longer had to pretend.

The smirk on his lips should have warned me. "A limp dick only with you. Turns out I just needed the right woman. A real woman."

Okay, that sucker-punched me even more than the body insults. I barely had any breath to speak. "You're cheating on me?"

"I've moved on, and so should you."

"To do what?" I practically yelled. I'd revolved my whole world around him. As miserable as it was, I had nothing else.

"Do whatever you want, but do it somewhere else. I want you out of my house. Take your stuff and go."

"Where?" This was my home. This couldn't be happening.

"I don't really care so long as you're gone by the time I come back."

Hold on a second. "Where are you going?

"None of your business."

My lips trembled. "You can't just leave me."

"I can. And don't you dare start your crying. This is your fault." With those final words, he slammed out of the house.

And I broke.

I sat down on my immaculate kitchen floor and sobbed. It wasn't pretty. Or quiet. Or even dry.

Snot ran down and dripped from my chin, mixing with my salty tears. I took great, hiccupping gulps as my body shook and I cried. Cried hard.

If asked, I'm not even sure I could have said why I was so sad. In many respects, Martin was right. Our marriage hadn't had any kind of true intimacy or love in a long time. Yet, it existed. It gave me purpose and meaning. A reason to get up early every morning.

Did it matter if I was happy? I wasn't even sure what happiness looked like. How did one define happiness? I had a roof over my head, clothes, food, my own car. But those things came at a cost. My dignity. My self-worth.

When was the last time I'd truly smiled? Laughed? I didn't even have my children anymore. Martin had chased them away, and I, too meek to confront him over it, allowed it.

Allowed that man to guide my every move and thought. He was right about one thing. I was dumb. In one fell swoop, he took my life and my future away from me.

I am nothing.

I was a nobody. No one needed me. Not a single person I could turn to or count on because I'd driven them all away.

Would anyone really care if I were gone?

My children would mourn me, but not for long. They'd escaped, and I knew they blamed me for allowing Martin to be Martin. As a father, he was the hockey dad on the sidelines, screaming obscenities at referees and other parents. Every year he was escorted from an arena and I got pitying looks. I wasn't surprised when Geoffrey stopped playing.

As for Wendy, his little girl, she wasn't so little. A chubby girl growing up, she'd retained some of the weight as a teen, and her father mocked her. "You'd need a dozen of those fairies with magic dust to make you fly."

It was one of the few times I stood against him. Where I tried to protect my daughter.

"Don't call her fat."

"Don't tell me what to do in my house with my kid," he'd sneered. "Do you want her to end up looking like you?"

Rather than fight, I'd buried myself in a room with a book and a pint of ice cream. I did that a lot. Hiding from the ugliness in the hopes it would go away.

It never actually worked, and yet I couldn't break the cycle. I still recalled how I'd hated it when my parents split up. I couldn't do that to my kids. Then, once they were gone, I stayed. Why?

I actually knew the answer to that. Fear.

I was a fat, middle-aged woman with no job skills, nothing. Where would I go? What would I do? I couldn't start over.

Except now Martin had left me no choice.

He'd told me I had to pack up and go. The very idea had me hyperventilating. Where would I go?

My first thought was to call the kids, and I immediately dismissed it. I couldn't ask Wendy or Geoff. They didn't deserve to have their lives disrupted, not to mention I didn't think I could handle the "I told you so" from my daughter.

But if not them, then who? My family had died a long time ago.

I'm all alone. There was no worse feeling in the world.

I fixed my gaze on the gas stove. I'd heard it didn't hurt. What would it be like to go to sleep and never wake? At least then I'd stop being a disappointment to everyone, most of all myself.

Without even realizing I'd moved, I found myself standing in front of the stove, my hand on the knob. The scent of gas filled my nostrils.

Dring. Dring.

My phone, with its old-fashioned ring tone, broke me free from the depressed mood that gripped me. I smelled the rotten egg of the gas and snapped the valve shut.

Never would I kill myself. In that I was certain.

I stepped away from the stove—and my moment of insanity—and rubbed at the hair straggling across my face, stuck to damp, snotty cheeks. Gross.

Dring. Dring.

I chose to rinse my face with cool water rather than run for the phone. It would hit voicemail before I reached it. Besides, I didn't want to talk to anyone.

They might hear the shame.

And if they asked if I was all right—

Well, that was a question I'd rather not deal with right now. Only once I'd patted my face dry did I peek at my phone. Unknown. Damned telemarketers.

I shuffled from the kitchen into the living room, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Halting, I stared long and hard. Stared at myself in a critical manner that I'd not dared for a long time. I hated the woman looking back at me.

A woman who had let herself go. When was the last time I had my hair cut? The wispy ends of it were dry and split. Gray lined the brown. And it was thin. So thin compared to my youth when I could barely put my fingers around it.

Look at the state of my brows! Shaggy caterpillars that only narrowly missed joining. Just call me Bert.

My shirt probably wouldn't even make the repurpose bin if donated. It was little better than a rag. In my defense, I'd not expected to get up this morning and get dumped on. But at the same time, I couldn't recall the last time I'd bought myself something because it looked pretty. It had been a while since I'd bothered trying to doll myself up to look attractive.

For that I blamed Martin. He didn't care, so neither did I.

And now look at me. The old lady in the mirror had a trembling lower lip and her skin was blotchy.

It would have been easy to start crying again. Just as easy to forget my previous vow of not giving up and go straight for the pills Martin kept in the upstairs bathroom. Wash them down with some booze and then a nice soak in the tub and I wouldn't have to deal with this…nightmare.

My gaze strayed to the stove again. I knew all the ways I could go. Easy, painless methods, unlike what I'd have to deal with today, tomorrow...

Scratch. Scratch.

It came from the living room. The strange noise drew my gaze to the back of the house. A curtain covered the sliding glass door because Martin hated sunlight in the morning. For once, I didn't actually mind it, as the gloom suited my mood.

I heard it again, a strange noise coming from outside. I crossed the room in an instant. Yanking the curtain aside, I saw a little furry face. The ears on the smoky gray fluffball were bent. Its fur was matted and wet as if it had spent time in the rain. It had one blue eye, one green, the mismatched set gazing mournfully at me. It raised a paw, and its sharp little claws dragged on the screen.

How had a kitten gotten into the yard? The fence was too high for it to climb.

"Meow." The cry emerged soft and muffled.

I still slid open the door and then pulled mesh along the metal track before kneeling. "Hello there, little one. Where did you come from?" I saw no collar. Nothing to identify whom it belonged to.

I reached out and stroked a finger over its head. It trembled. Poor little thing.

"What am I going to do with you?" It probably belonged to someone. Maybe they'd come looking for it.

"Meeee-uuu." The long, plaintive sound tugged at me, and I scooped the wet thing, cradling it to my own damp chest.

"Don't cry," I soothed, the gesture and comforting of the trembling body reminding me of my kids when they were little. A time when I used to be if not happy, then content. Back when they still loved and looked up to me.

The little head bumped into my chest. I stroked a finger over its damp head, and the kitten broke into a ragged, rumbling purr.

"Let's get you warm and dry." I brought the kitten into the house, ignoring the inner voice that said Martin wouldn't like it. He hated animals. Forbade us from having any.

Martin could stuff it.

"I wonder if someone is looking for you," I murmured, bringing it into the kitchen.

I only briefly thought of going and asking door to door if someone had lost it. The thought of facing that many people…I couldn't do it.

Instead, I created a small poster and stapled it to the fence out front with its peeling paint. It had been years since Martin gave a hoot about anything pertaining to the house. Probably too busy giving his attention to another woman.


With my civic duty done, I made a quick trip to the store, bought everything I needed for the cat and myself, paid for it on a credit card. Then I went and gassed up, where the same card was declined.

I frowned at the machine. Perhaps it had malfunctioned. I went inside and the cashier gave me a bored look as it was declined again.

A good thing I had a few dollars to pay for my gas. I got back into my car, hot with embarrassment, which turned to fury once I got off the phone with the credit card company. Martin had cancelled my credit card.

Glancing at my phone, I wondered if it would be the next casualty. I had no doubt vindictive Martin would try to take everything from me. He'd leave me with nothing.

Then what would I do?

Starting my car, I found my spine and yanked it out of hiding.

If Martin wanted a divorce, I'd give him a divorce, but I was done bending over backwards for him.

He wanted a fight. I'd give him a fight.