Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  And yet she was still my best friend’s girl.

  Wasn’t she?

  Someone switched radio stations, and David Archuleta started singing about having a crush. Shaking my head, I thought it couldn’t get any more appropriate. Although, what I felt for Maggie went way beyond anything so trite or trivial.

  It wasn’t love at first sight. Even at eighteen years old, I knew that concept was complete and utter horseshit.

  Lust at first sight was certainly possible. But love required getting to know a person. All the good parts and bad parts, all the weird parts and sad parts.

  Luckily, the hours we’d spent together in the school library reading and talking about Harry Potter, and the days and weeks and months we’d been friends since, had afforded me the rare honor of getting to know Maggie. I no longer thought of her as the pretty girl with the sky-blue eyes and gap-toothed smile. (That was simply packaging.) I thought of her as Maggie May. And Maggie May epitomized the look and feel, the smell and taste of…love.

  Out in that bayou, dancing with her in my arms, I finally admitted to myself that I was ass over teakettle for her. Like a fruit fly, I’d buzzed around the notion for months, landing occasionally only to flit off again. But there was no more denying it.

  Pulling her close, I swayed with her to the lilting melody of Archuleta’s crooning tenor, reveling in the way she fitted against me like a puzzle piece clicking into place. There were no electrical storms on the horizon, and yet the air around us crackled with an expectant sort of energy.

  I let my hand drift up her back until my thumb brushed along the top edge of her dress. I never knew skin could feel so satiny.

  “Luc?” She tightened her grip on my waist. “Why did he leave? Was it something I did? Something I said? Did he not want to—” Her voice hitched on a sob, and the spell between us snapped as easily as the stick beneath the heel of my rented patent leather shoe.

  “It’s got nothing to do with you, Maggie May,” I assured her.

  “Then why, Luc?” She stopped dancing to hold me at arm’s length. Her eyes were big and wet with unshed tears. “Why did he leave tonight of all nights?”

  I swallowed and turned away, torn between my loyalty to Cash and my love for her. “He had to go. That’s all I can say.”

  “W-will he come back?” Her gaze beseeched me.

  I hugged her close and gave her the only truth I could. “I don’t think so.”

  A terrible whimper escaped her then. All I could do was try my best to hold her together even as she fell apart. It was odd to want her for myself at the same time I wanted Cash to come home and stop her from hurting.

  I have no recollection of how long we stayed there in that clearing, her crying her heart out and me hanging on to her for dear life. But eventually her tears subsided, and she heaved a deep sigh that sounded like resignation.

  When she looked up at me, I used my thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks, marveling at the warmth of her, the softness of her, the vulnerability and strength of a sixteen-year-old girl on the cusp of womanhood.

  “Luc?” Her voice was tremulous.

  When I stared into her eyes, she must’ve seen the hunger in mine, the need I had spent so much time hiding.

  “Luc, I—” She swallowed but didn’t shake her head no when I bent toward her.

  Slowly (so slowly I died a little with each passing second) I closed the distance between us. When I felt her hot breath brush my lips, I shuddered.

  “Maggie May?” Every question in my head was wrapped up in those three syllables. In her name.

  She began to tremble. With sorrow? With passion? I was too inexperienced to tell.

  “I’m cold,” she blurted, jerking from the circle of my arms and taking three steps backward. It felt like she reached inside my chest and took my heart with her.

  In that moment, I knew.

  She would never be mine.

  “I’ll run back to Smurf and grab my jacket,” I told her, trying to be the gentleman my momma raised me to be despite my aching heart. I hoped that the few minutes it would take to make the round trip to the truck and back would be enough for me to come to terms with the loss of something I never even had. “You stay here.”

  With those three words, I sealed our fate.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Dear Cash,

  The weatherman warned we should brace for a storm tonight. The rain isn’t here just yet, but already the wind is crazy. That old pine tree growing beside my bedroom window keeps tapping on the glass, reminding me of all the times you climbed the silly thing.

  How many hours did we spend talking with eight feet of air between us, me sitting on my windowsill and you clinging to the trunk of that tree? Through all those long, lazy nights, what in the world did we discuss? Can you remember? I can’t. But I suppose we must have talked about everything and nothing at all.

  That’s the way of those kinds of conversations, isn’t it? They don’t seem important or particularly memorable at the time. But now I wish I could recall every word.

  It’s been two months since you left me. Two months since I had someone to talk to about my feelings, my fears, the nightmares that jolt me awake in the middle of the night.

  All that seems to remain for me now is this pen and this paper and that pine tree outside my window. But to be honest, none of them are much company.

  Lord, I’m lonely. Lonely like I used to be before I met you and Luc. So lonely I feel it in my bones. Do you know what that’s like? Maybe not, because you have Luc there with you.

  Sometimes I think I hate you for leaving me with nothing and no one. I hate you for it, and yet I still love you.

  Love, Maggie

  I’m lucky. I’ve known true friendship and true love. Not everyone can say that.

  So even though fate has kicked me in my ball sac with this whole head thing, I woke up this morning with a can-do attitude.

  This will work. Everything I have planned will work. I just have to make sure Maggie understands a few things first.

  For a moment, I allow myself to stand outside Bon Temps Rouler and watch her wipe down the bar. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail and the silver band on her watch catches the morning light streaming in through the windows. It plays peekaboo with the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The tiny memorial to the purity of our young and impulsive love.

  Although, maybe it wasn’t so impulsive. Maybe it was the opposite of impulsive because, after more than ten years, it still survives.

  The thought has melancholy trying to sneak up on me, so I quickly square my shoulders and push into the bar. Or…at least I attempt to. The door is still locked.

  Frowning, I check my watch. She should’ve opened ten minutes ago.

  The rattle of the door handle catches her attention. She skirts the bar and heads toward me with a skip in her step.

  Years ago, when the ice bucket challenge for ALS was a thing, I did my part and let Luc douse me. The shock of the icy water made me gasp and shiver. Her smile makes me feel the same way now.

  After turning the dead bolt, she holds the door wide and flips the closed sign around until it reads Entrez, C’est Ouvert. The fancy French version of Come in! We’re open!

  “You’re here early.” Her unique New Orleans accent sounds particularly juicy this morning.

  Never understood why people from up North sneer at the way folks from down South talk. It’s like they think slow speech is an indication of a slow mind.

  They’re dead wrong, of course. The sleepy pace of conversation allows for thoughtfulness. And round, elongated vowels are soothing to the ear.

  “Getting a late start, aren’t you?” I step inside. The traditional smells of corner bars the world over accost me: booze, bleach, and fresh urinal cakes. The volume of the jukebox is turned down low so that the sound of Kermit Ruffins blowing his trumpet drifts through the air, sweet and so
ft as a memory.

  My instinct is to kiss her, to take her in my arms and squeeze her tight. So I hasten toward a barstool.

  “You know business hours are flexible here.” She slips behind the bar. When she lifts a pot of freshly brewed coffee, I nod.

  “You’re telling me. Places seem to open late or close early with no rhyme or reason.” I blow across the top of the joe she hands me until steam swirls in front of my eyes. It makes her image look slightly witchy.

  With her black hair and angel eyes, I can totally picture her stirring a cauldron and casting spells over the hearts of unsuspecting men. She certainly beguiled me the first time I saw her. And she’s been enchanting me ever since.

  She shrugs. “I mean, sure, I get the need for consistency. And business is business. But more importantly, life is life. I don’t understand folks who can’t seem to grasp that.”

  “That’s ’cause you were born and raised here.”

  “And thank the good Lord I was,” she declares with emotion. “I don’t think I’d have made it anywhere else.”

  “You’d have made it. You’re tough.”

  Her expression remains doubtful. “I don’t know. A couple of years back, I stayed with Eva up in Chicago for a few days. She was there doing a photo shoot, and oh my gosh, Cash, there were so many people. Everyone seemed to have someplace to go and be in a gosh-darned hurry to get there. Every taxi driver was meaner than a mama wasp. And the cursing.” She holds a hand to her heart as if her delicate sensibilities have been offended. “They drop the F-bomb like nobody’s business. By the time I was finished having a conversation with someone, I felt like I’d been knocked into next week looking both ways for Sunday. When I got back from my vacation, I needed a vacation.”

  I chuckle. “If you think Chicago is bad, you should try New York City.”

  “No, thank you very much. I’m happy here in my soft, slow corner of the world.”

  Soft, slow corner of the world…

  That pretty much sums up this city. It isn’t ambitious. Not like Atlanta or LA or even Houston. It has no need to look outside itself for signs of progress. It is what it is and makes no excuses for it.

  Taking a sip of coffee, I eye her over the rim of the cup. “Never think of leaving?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m a hometown girl when you get right down to it. I like the familiar.”

  “It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. You know who you are and where you want to be.”

  She studies me. “That means you’re lucky too, right? You know exactly who you are. And you bought that Creole cottage, so you must know exactly where you want to be.”

  I neither agree nor disagree. Instead, I take another sip of coffee and welcome the warmth in my belly. The brisk wind on the walk over nipped at my nose and the tips of my ears. They still feel the bite.

  “The weatherman said this cold snap is supposed to blow over by tomorrow,” I say.

  She blinks myopically. “And now we’re talking about the weather? Next time, switch on your turn signal so I’m prepared to change lanes.”

  I grin. “My point is, I feel like this weather has kept me inside too much. I know we’re supposed to wait until our brunch on Sunday to plan our next excursion, but I was wondering if you’d have time in the next couple of days to check something off the list.”

  She frowns. “Just me and you?”

  “Shit no. This is a job for the Three Musketeers.”

  Her expression softens. But then she makes a face of regret. “I’m pulling a double tomorrow.”

  “What about Thursday?”

  “I’m working the afternoon shift, and then I’m going with Jean-Pierre to the fais do-do his family is throwing for his uncle’s sixty-fifth birthday.”

  I lived in New Orleans for six months before I learned a fais do-do was a Cajun dance party. It was a year before I was invited to one and realized exactly what that entailed.

  A true fais do-do is a raucous event filled with belly-busting food, a band that inevitably includes one or two fiddles, Mason jars overflowing with home brew, and more foot-stomping and tall-tale-telling than a Yankee such as myself knows what to do with.

  “And then on Friday, we’re all meeting with your aunt,” I say.

  She lifts a brow. She’s always had particularly talkative eyebrows, and right now they ask a question without words.

  “Luc called me after he left your place last night,” I explain. “He told me you green-lighted bringing Miss Bea into this.”

  “If he called you last night, then you understand why I was late getting started this morning. He and Jean-Pierre played music until almost two a.m. Actually…” She snaps her fingers and points at me. “He agreed to play at the fais do-do. It won’t exactly be an excursion, but if you’re there, then it’ll kind of be like one. We can dust off the rust that’s grown on us these last few days. Let our hair down. Cut a rug.”

  “Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Any more clichéd idioms and my brain will turn to mush and leak out through my ears.”

  She chuckles. “I’m serious. You should come.”

  I shrug. “Wouldn’t feel right crashing the party without an invitation.”

  “Are you kidding? The more the merrier. Besides, Jean-Pierre’s uncle will have a field day with your Jersey accent. He thinks anyone born north of the Mason-Dixon Line should be hogtied and shot. Or at the very least, teased to death. Give Uncle Homer a target to aim his wit at. Consider it your birthday gift to him.”

  I flatten my lips into a straight line. “Well, when you put it that way.”

  She reaches across the bar to pat my forearm. Her cool fingers set my skin on fire. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  “Will there be jambalaya?” I ask.

  “You can bet on it.” She nods.

  “And a table set up in the back with a bunch of grizzled old guys chewing tobacco and playing poker?”

  “Of course.”

  “And an old woman with no teeth who’ll get drunk and pinch my butt?”

  “Wouldn’t be a fais do-do without one of those.”

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  “Good.” She winks before grabbing the dish towel lying atop the bar and going to work polishing a pilsner glass.

  Glancing out the window, I’m struck by the empty sidewalk. “Quiet this morning,” I muse.

  “It’s too cold for the locals and too early for the tourists,” she says.

  My mind isn’t really on the lack of foot traffic. It’s on the second reason I headed here. No use putting it off any longer. “So, about the other night…”

  Her hands fall still. When I don’t immediately go on, she sets the pilsner glass aside and tosses the towel over her shoulder. “What about it?”

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  Her chin jerks back. Did I mention she has a particularly expressive chin too? “I seem to recall that I kissed you,” she says.

  “But I kissed you back.”

  “Which is pretty much what every girl hopes for in that situation.”

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  Her frown deepens. “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “Because…” I swallow. There’s no easy way to say this. “I think it gave you the wrong impression.”

  Her expression is the facial equivalent of a chalkboard that’s been wiped clean. “And what impression would that be? That you still want me?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, no. Dammit!” I’m more addled than that time I woke up with Luc’s dick in my face.

  We’d been bunked down in a mud hut seventy clicks from friendly territory. A deathstalker—an especially gnarly species of scorpion—had crawled into Luc’s pants while he was sleeping. He woke up in time to shuck his drawers before the fucker could sting him, but his striptease in the tiny hut meant I had the dubious honor of getting up close and personal with his nightstick.

  “You’re an incredibly attractive woman, Maggie,” I adm
it slowly. “But—”

  “Do you still love me?” she interrupts.

  “I…” The words strangle in my throat.

  That’s Magnolia May Carter for you. One minute, she’s the picture of easy Southern manners. The next, she’s in your face, demanding you cut the crap and give it to her straight.

  “I mean…” I shake my head, my thoughts stumbling over themselves like they have two left feet. This isn’t how I envisioned this conversation going. “Yes. I still love you. In fact, loving you was the easiest decision I ever made. You’ve always been the best thing about me.”

  A slow smile stretches her mouth and makes her eyes twinkle. There she is, my sparkly, shiny girl.

  The ache in my heart translates to my head, and I reach for my flask. After adding a generous shot to my coffee, I take a long sip and try to arrange my thoughts into order.

  “But that doesn’t change anything,” I mutter. “This thing with my head, it’s—”

  “We’ll get through it.”

  I close my eyes. We’ll get through it. We.

  I have to stop this crazy train before it goes off the rails. “There’s no we about it. It’s me. I don’t want you involved.”

  “Too bad. I already am.” She grabs the dish towel and goes back to polishing. She might look like a sweet, pink cupcake, but she can be as stubborn as a jawbreaker.

  “I mean with me,” I clarify. “I don’t want you involved with me. I don’t want—”

  The door bursts open, and Earl blows into the bar like he’s been shot from a cannon.

  “You’re late,” Maggie declares.

  “Woke up this morning with my old bones frozen stiff.” His mustache twitches with distaste. “This weather has me fit to be tied.”

  “It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow.” She pours him a cup of coffee, but hesitates with the half-and-half. “I hate to ask, but…are you back on dairy?”