“Hey, Maggie!” Earl hollers. “I’m so dry I’m spitting cotton over here!” He holds up his empty beer bottle.
“Don’t you yell at me like I’m one of your racing dogs, Earl Greene!” she scolds, hands on hips. “I’ll snatch you bald-headed and then go after your mustache!”
Earl protects his ’stache with a knobby-knuckled hand. “You’re meaner than a wet panther today. What’s gotten into you?” He pins me with an accusing look.
“Hey!” I lift my hands. “Don’t blame me.”
Maggie pops the top on a beer and slides it Earl’s way. Then she turns to the table of Midwesterners. “Y’all good? Need another pitcher?”
“One more!” the one in the Reds hat calls as he rolls the dice.
After Maggie pulls a fresh pitcher and sets it on the end of the bar for someone in the group to pick up, she turns back to me. I recognize her expression. Something’s giving her fits.
When she’s quiet for too long, I reach across the bar and chuck her under the chin. “Out with it. You’ll feel better once it’s off your chest.”
She frowns at me. “Stop being so insightful, dang it!”
I pretend offense. “My, my. Earl’s right. You are in fine form today.”
She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, then sullenly admits, “I owe you an apology.”
“You do?” I blink in confusion. “For what?”
“For bringing up Sally Renee yesterday when you were flirting with Eva. It’s just that…” She twists her lips. “The thought of you and Eva starting something terrifies me.”
I go still, my silly heart ever hopeful that someday she’ll look at me and see something more than the goofy kid she used to know. (Which makes me feel completely disloyal to Cash. But there you have it.) Then a thought occurs that has my silly, ever-hopeful heart caving in on itself. “Why? You think I’m not good enough for her?”
Maggie clasps her throat in surprise. “Of course you’re good enough for her. You and Eva are two of my favorite people in the world. But that’s the whole dadgummed problem.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Not following.”
“What happens when you have your fun and then you’re done with her, huh? Eva might look fierce, but she’s got a heart like whipped cream. You could hurt her, and then where would I be? I’d have to choose sides.”
And that, ladies and gents, marks the last time I get my hopes up.
“Eva is a beautiful woman,” I admit. “There’s no denying that. But I’ve never looked at her as anything more than your friend.”
“But…you two were flirting.”
“Yeah. And you as well as anyone should know flirting doesn’t mean a damned thing.”
She narrows her eyes. “Me as well as anyone? What is that supposed to mean? Do you think I’ve flirted with you? Do you think I’ve led you on or—”
“Oh, for the love of living, Maggie May.” I toss up my hands. “I’m talking about Cash and how he flirts with everyone and everything.”
“Oh.” She makes a face. “Sorry, I…” She shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“Is it okay if I change the subject now?” Irritation makes the skin across my shoulders feel tight.
Her smile is lopsided. “Please.”
“Mom said she’d love to come to Thanksgiving dinner at your aunts’ house next week. Since Cash was aiming to spend the evening with us, that means he’s coming too. Tell Miss Bea and Miss June they’ll have three more at their table.”
“Oh good.” All the tension leaves her face. I wish I could say it leaves mine too, but this entire conversation has been an exercise in exasperation. “They’ll be so happy,” she adds.
I take a fortifying swig of beer, hoping it’ll help sweeten my suddenly sour mood.
“I can’t wait to see your mom again.” She plucks a beer mug from the drying rack and uses a towel to polish it. “It’s been too long. Has she changed much over the years?”
“She’s cut her hair shorter, but that’s about it,” I admit.
“She always looked dark and mysterious in her peasant skirts and bangles. I totally get why the mayor fell for her so hard he was willing to risk his career.”
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, I can see she wants to reel them back in.
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why I said that. I know you…” She trails off and looks at her feet. “I know it’s a touchy subject.”
“Not so much anymore.” I shrug. “With age comes wisdom. Mom did what she thought she had to do to keep us clothed and fed. I respect her for that, and for what she’s made of herself since.”
Maggie slides the dried mug onto a shelf and reaches for another from the rack, watching me curiously, as if she has more she wants to say but isn’t sure she should.
When I lift a questioning eyebrow, she stammers, “You, uh…you never told me how all that…came to be.”
When I was younger, I was careful not to broach this subject. For one thing, I was tall and gangly and pimply, and that made me stand out from the crowd at a time when I’d have given anything to blend in. For another thing, the last thing I wanted to talk about with anyone, even Maggie, was the high-profile affair my mother was having with the mayor of New Orleans. And finally, I was ashamed. Not so much of Mom, but of the scandal. I thought if I ignored it, if I acted like it wasn’t happening, people would stop staring at me, stop calling me names, and leave me well enough alone.
Wishful thinking on my part, of course.
“We were poor even before Dad died,” I say. “But we had what we needed. ‘And not an inch more,’ Dad would always say.” I smile at the memory of him. Even though I was young when he died, barely thirteen, I can still remember the laugh lines around his eyes and how gentle his big, work-worn hands could be when I was scared or hurt.
“After he was gone, things got bad fast. There were taxes due, not to mention the mortgage on the land. Even though it was what most folks would consider pennies, it was more than Mom could handle on her own. Not that she didn’t try. She took up cleaning houses during the day and quilting during the evenings to bring in a little extra. It wasn’t enough though. When the bank threatened to foreclose, Mayor Gibson stepped in.”
Maggie’s brow wrinkles. “But how did he know?”
“She’d been cleaning his house for about three months by then. She musta confided in him.”
“And he magnanimously agreed to help her out of the kindness of his heart?” Maggie makes a face. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with your mom being shaped like Sofia Vergara.”
“I’m not gonna blow smoke up your ass and say it started out innocent. But it wasn’t as salacious as The Times-Picayune made it sound.” I grimace at the memory of the newspaper headlines that reported on the affair. None of them painted my mother in a pretty light.
“Gibson hired her to work for him full time and gave her an advance on her salary so she could keep the bank at bay. When that money ran out, he agreed to up her pay if she joined him for dinners every evening. I reckon it went on from there. Eventually, he installed us in his guest house, I was enrolled at Braxton Academy, and Mom became his full-time mistress. She says it’s not something she’s proud of, but she claims to have come to care for Gibson over time. And he was nice, from what I can recall. Sorta tragic and lonely. I reckon he was looking for company more than anything else.”
“His wife had been bedridden for years, hadn’t she? Something about an accident?”
I nod. “Her car was hit by a drunk driver out on Highway 10. By the time my mom came into the picture, Mrs. Gibson had been in a vegetative state for nearly five years.”
Maggie shakes her head sorrowfully. “That must’ve been hell on the mayor. To have a wife, but not have a wife.”
I spread my hands. “I don’t aim to judge the situation. Not anymore.”
“So what happened between them? Your mom and Mayor Gibson, I mean. Not long after you left, your mom up
and moved to Shreveport, and the mayor announced he wouldn’t be running for another term.”
“I think the scandal was too much for ’em. They were both good people at heart, ethical people. Some folks might’ve been able to weather the storm of an entire city pointing fingers and judging, but they couldn’t.”
I realize I’ve been tearing at a cocktail napkin. It lies in shreds atop the bar. “You know,” I confide, “it all came out ’cause of George Sullivan.”
“Wait.” She blinks. “What?”
“Yep.” I nod. “Mayor Gibson got wise to the rumors about Sullivan encouraging police brutality and went after Sullivan’s job. He didn’t budge even after Sullivan pressured some of the city’s movers and shakers into attempting to persuade him into keeping Sullivan on. Feeling the noose closing around his neck, Sullivan hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on the mayor, and it didn’t take long for the snoop to come up with my mom. Sullivan gave the story to the papers. And the rest, as they say, is history. Gibson finished the remaining years of his term, but he never ran for public office again. Last I heard, he moved to Little Rock.”
“And he never got enough on Sullivan to bring him down?”
I shake my head. “Mom tells me he tried, but too many of the rank and file refused to testify against their superintendent. Even the clean ones probably reckoned if Sullivan could air the mayor’s dirty secrets, then he could certainly air theirs.”
She sighs. “What an unholy mess.”
“And we’re still dealing with the fallout. Dean took to harassing me ’cause of my mom. Then he probably took to harassing you ’cause you were friends with me. Then Cash beat the stuffing outta him for harassing you. Then he followed us into that swamp and attacked you probably ’cause he was thinking that’d be a way to get back at me or Cash, and now…” I spread my hands.
“Links in a horrible, twisted chain,” she mutters, her expression cloudier than a thunderstorm.
Purpose fills my chest. “It’s a chain I aim to break,” I assure her.
Chapter Forty-three
______________________________________
Maggie
Good news is never unwelcome, and sometimes it comes your way right when you need it.
When I pull my cell phone from my hip pocket after a loud ding alerts me to a new email, I expect to see an invoice from my liquor supplier or a link from Eva to a funny cat video—the woman lives for funny cat videos. Goat videos too. She thinks the ones with the fainting goats are especially hysterical. But I’m the one ready to keel over when I see who it’s from.
He responded! I can’t believe he actually responded!
With shaky fingers, I tap open the email.
From: Dr. Sean Stevens, Neurology, Johns Hopkins
To: Magnolia May Carter
Subject: RE: Traumatic Brain Injury Consult for Green Beret
Dear Miss Carter,
I’m honored you reached out to me regarding a second opinion for your friend. From the information you’ve given me, his case sounds interesting. I would be pleased to review his medical records and supply you with my professional opinion regarding his prognosis, pain management, and any potential surgical solutions. Please send any and all relevant documentation to me at [email protected].
No payment is necessary at this time. If, after reviewing his records, I agree to take on his case, we’ll work out the details with his insurance and the VA.
Kind regards,
Dr. Sean Stevens, MS, MRCS, ABNS
I have no idea what all those letters after his name stand for, but they look important and impressive and Oh! My! Lord! For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of hope. It’s like I’m taking a deep breath after having my head underwater.
I haven’t seen Cash or Luc in days. They’ve been alternating between renovating Cash’s house and surveilling Cash’s dad’s house. Apparently, Rick Armstrong, that sorry sonofagun, contracted one heck of a nasty virus. He’s yet to emerge from his sickbed.
Any other time, I’d be jumping for joy. After the way I saw him lay into Cash—and after what I now know he did to Cash for years—it’s safe to say I wouldn’t be the least bit sorry if he came down with a bad case of necrotizing fasciitis. But as it stands, his timing couldn’t be worse, and I’ve been falling victim to despair.
I mean, how much can go wrong before a person begins to wonder if the Fates have lined up against them?
Then this email comes in and changes everything. The tides are turning in our favor, right? Right?
“Charlie,” I call to my barback. “You think you can mind the store for fifteen minutes until Gus shows up for his shift? I need to take off early.”
This news is too good not to share immediately.
“’Course he can,” Earl answers for Charlie. “He can mind the store better than you.”
I scowl at Earl. “You only say that because he lets you badger him into pouring double shots while only charging you for one.”
“Not every time,” Charlie argues, pink sneaking into his cheeks.
I pull the dish towel off my shoulder and toss it onto the bar. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell Charlie, slipping from behind the bar. “Sometimes it’s easier to give him what he wants and avoid his petulance.”
“Who you calling petulant?” Earl’s mustache is cocked at an angle that can be described as…well…petulant.
I blow each of them a kiss before pushing through the front door and out into the cool fall evening. If I could eat the air, I would. It’s thick and rich with Cajun spices. With a skip in my step, I set off in the direction of Cash’s house.
It’s not quite seven p.m., but the buskers on Royal are in full swing. On the corner, a girl with a fiddle sits atop an overturned crate, sawing away on the strings until the instrument’s full, throaty sounds fill the world around her. I drop a few dollars into her open case. She bobs her head in thanks, never once breaking stride.
Farther down, a Dixieland band, complete with a washboard, stand-up bass, and banjo, has set up in the middle of the street. A girl in a frilly skirt tap-dances on a piece of plywood that’s been tossed onto the ground. I drop a few more bills into an upturned hat and get a wink and an air-kiss for my efforts.
The beauty of the Vieux Carré is that on any given day of the week, you can wander the streets and hear some of the most talented musicians on the planet.
In other cities you see the guys who drum the bottoms of five-gallon paint buckets. And not to discount their talent, but as Earl would say, “That mess don’t fly here.” If you want to make a buck on the streets of the Big Easy, you better be able to make an instrument sing like nobody’s business.
I turn onto Orleans Avenue and see Cash and Luc exit Cash’s place. They head in my direction, but they don’t see me. Which affords me the rare opportunity to study them at length.
Where Cash is lean and sinewy, Luc is sturdy and muscled. Where Cash is light and golden, Luc is dark and enigmatic. Where Cash is messy and disheveled, Luc is clean-cut and freshly shaved.
A study in opposites.
And yet, in all the ways that count, they’re exactly alike. Both brave. Both gallant. But loyal to a fault.
Warmth spreads through me when I think how lucky I am to have these two amazing men in my life. And when Cash glances up and sees me, the corners of his eyes crinkling, I want to run to him. I want to throw my arms around his neck and whisper my good news into his ear. But his insistence on keeping things platonic between us works like glue on my feet.
“We were headed your way!” he calls from more than a block away. “We thought we’d surprise you and take you to dinner!”
Hearing his strident voice reminds me of his reaction on the streetcar when I told him about contacting the neurosurgeon. For the first time, it occurs to me that he might not view this email from Dr. Stevens in the same light I do.
Shoot.
Maybe I should’ve stopped to give this plan of mine more thoug
ht.
“I was hoping to see how y’all were coming along on your house!” I holler back, ungluing my feet and forcing myself to continue in their direction.
It’s not a lie. I have been itching to check out the progress they’ve made.
When we meet at the corner of Orleans and Bourbon, Luc bends to kiss my cheek. His lips are warm and the whorl of hair flopped over his brow tickles my forehead. Cash, I notice, only continues to smile at me.
“Cut out of work early, did you?” He turns up the sidewalk and heads back toward his place.
“It was slow.” I shrug. “Charlie will be fine until Gus shows up.”
Once we’ve climbed the stoop, Cash puts his hand on the doorknob and cautions, “Remember. It’s a work in progress.” Then he opens the door and hits the switch on the wall.
The single bare bulb dangling from the center of the room shines over newly sanded floors, bare trim, and a crap-ton of brand-new drywall and plaster.
They’ve stripped years of paint from the fireplace. In its place is a whitewash that softens the color of the brickwork, turning it a delicate gray. They’ve installed a reclaimed barn door between the living room and the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Its detailed ironwork and thick, shiny wood stands out as artwork among the drop cloths and sawdust. And they’ve added to the crown molding until it’s nearly a foot thick, a massive architectural statement that runs through the open living room, dining room, and kitchen.
I whistle. “How can a guy who has such questionable taste in clothes, books, and television shows build something that looks like this?” I indicate the three expansive rooms.
“The design choices are mostly Luc’s,” Cash admits. “I sand what he tells me to sand and paint what he tells me to paint.”
Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2 Page 10