For four days, Nestor made his sluggish way toward the mainland, turning north at the last minute to slam into southeast Louisiana.
I wonder if anything will remain of Fort St. Philip once the storm passes. Was it fate or simply good timing that made Cash insist we go see it?
We’re told we’re not in any real danger of losing life or limb here in New Orleans. Even still, the mayor issued a voluntary evacuation order since it’s possible with all the rain—and all the street flooding that will follow—electricity in parts of the city could go down for the duration. Lots of folks loaded up their cars or packed into buses to head north.
But the Vieux Carré is notorious for “holding up.” Considering a lot of the buildings in the French Quarter have been standing since the early 1800s, hold up it has.
When Nestor turned our way yesterday evening, I put out a call to employees, friends, family—and a few of my most loyal customers—to say I’d be hosting a hurricane party. Where? The bar. When? From the moment it starts coming down until the storm blows over. Why? Because why the heck not?
Laissez les bon temps rouler!
“Where do you want me to set up the grill, Maggie?” Gus, my second full-time bartender besides Chrissy, calls from the sidewalk outside.
The wind is already picking up and blowing his hair around his face. Although he was born and raised just up the road in Lafayette, Gus claims to be a Scotsman by blood. With his red hair and a build like a stevedore, I can totally see him sporting a kilt and carrying a broadsword.
His wife and two nearly grown teenage boys push into the bar ahead of him, setting their gear by the front window.
“Set it up inside the back door! It should be protected from the wind and rain there!” I yell above the noise of people arriving and choosing which corner they’ll call home for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
Everyone who got a call from me knows the drill. They also know what essentials to bring to a hurricane party, and the place is filling with sleeping bags, cases of water, food, and flashlights.
“Hey, everyone!” I clap my hands together. “Gus has arrived with the grill!” A cheer goes up. One of the staples of a hurricane party is the meat from everyone’s freezers and refrigerators. “All you carnivores take your perishables to the back and put them inside one of the three big coolers I’ve stocked with ice!”
Chrissy walks up to me with a plastic grocery bag in hand. “I didn’t have any steaks or chops in my fridge. Only four packages of hot dogs.”
“Perfect,” I tell her. “Gus’s boys will love those.” I look past her shoulder. “Where’s Harry?”
“He’ll be here in a bit. He had to finish a few things at the lot first.”
Chrissy’s husband, Harry, owns a used-car dealership north of town off Highway 90. But he’s about as far from the typical used-car salesman as you can imagine. He’s soft-spoken and shy, and I’m not sure I’ve heard him say more than twenty words in all the years I’ve known him.
Before Chrissy turns away, I ask, “On your way to dropping off the hot dogs, would you mind looking in on my cats in the storage room? I’ve been so busy, I haven’t checked to see if they still have water in their bowls.”
She frowns. “Last time I stopped by your apartment, Sheldon hid under the couch and then jumped out and bit me on the ankle when I walked by him. I’m telling you right now, you don’t pay me enough to stick my hand inside his crate.”
I laugh. “You can tip a water bottle through the crate holes to fill his bowl and not come anywhere near his teeth.”
“Fine.” She narrows her eyes. “But if he hisses at me, I’m squirting him with that water bottle instead of using it to fill his bowl.”
I shrug. “Seems fair.”
With an evil grin of anticipation, she sets off toward the back room.
I smile as I look around the bar. It’s not unheard of, but it’s incredibly rare to have a storm this late in the season. Given that, this hurricane party looks particularly festive, thanks to the Christmas decorations Charlie and Gus helped me string up over the weekend.
Twinkle lights zigzag across the ceiling. Silver and red garland frames the windows and the bar back. A small tabletop tree sits on a shelf in the corner by the jukebox, sporting the ornaments patrons have given me over the years. And two huge jars of candy canes stand like happy holiday sentinels at the corners of the bar.
I love this time of year, when the world comes alive with lights and laurels and wreaths, pink cheeks and pretty packages and songs about Santa. Which reminds me… I need to go shopping. Particularly since I have two more people to buy for this year.
A soft snore interrupts my musings and has me glancing at Yard. He’s curled next to the beer cooler, nose to tail. For the first few hours, he ran around like crazy, sniffing everything and everyone. It wore him plumb out. Now, despite all the noise and commotion, he’s sawing doggy logs.
“Earl Green is here! Let the party begin!”
Standing at the front door with the straps of a large backpack pulling at his shoulders, is my most loyal customer.
“I saved your usual spot for you!” I motion toward his stool and the corner he occupied the last time I held a hurricane party.
“Better make it a double!” He steps aside to reveal a fifty-ish woman wearing a polo shirt with the Omni Royal hotel emblem on the breast. She has a backpack and bedroll with her. “This here’s Stella,” Earl says. “She’s my plus-one.”
I welcome Stella in with a wave and a smile and make my way toward Earl’s end of the bar.
After he deposits his backpack in the corner, he leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. His handlebar mustache tickles my nose.
“Lord, Earl.” I curl my upper lip and whisper, “You smell like a Las Vegas strip club. I can’t separate the booze from the perfume.”
He wiggles his wiry eyebrows. “Me and Stella started partying early. If ya know what I mean.”
I point to Stella’s shirt. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re not supposed to get your nookie where you get your cookie?”
“Psshh.” He bats the notion away. “Nothing wrong with some workplace romance now and again.”
I shake my head even as I grin. “Well, make yourselves at home. The coolers for perishables are out back.”
He lifts a brown paper grocery sack above the bar. “Got me five pounds of hamburger meat in here and the buns to boot. Let’s get this party started.”
“Argh!” An affronted bellow draws my attention to the front door and I see the sky has opened up. Eva darts inside too late, and her head and shoulders shimmer with plump, sparkling raindrops. “I thought I was going to make it before the wet stuff started!” she complains, brushing away the moisture.
I scurry around the bar to give her a hug. “You’re sweet, but you’re not made of sugar. You won’t melt.”
She points to her crowning glory of tight, springy curls. “No matter how many times I’ve tried to school you on black hair, you still don’t get it.”
“Your hair is beautiful,” I tell her truthfully. “Everything about you is beautiful, and you know it. Now do me a huge favor and put your stuff away so you can come help me stack these cases of water. Last time we put them by the bathrooms, but that meant everyone had to go to the back of the bar if they wanted a bottle. I’m thinking maybe we should set up three separate stations. It’ll be more convenient.”
“Mmm.” She nods. “Sounds good to me. Has anyone claimed the storage room yet?”
I grin. “You think I’d let someone steal your favorite piece of real estate?”
“It’s not my favorite piece of real estate. I’d much rather be out here with the rest of y’all. But remember what happened during the last storm?”
I try to hide my smile by curling my lips around my teeth. “Yes. You woke up with Earl spooning you.”
She narrows her eyes and points to my face. “It’s not funny. I still have nightmares.”
A chuckle escapes me, but I cut it off so it sounds more like a snort. Clearing my throat, I gesture toward Stella. “If it’s any consolation, you should be safe this time. He’s brought a spooning companion with him.”
Eva eyes Earl’s date before turning back to me. “He strikes me as the type who could somehow find a way to spoon two women at once.” Taking hold of her duffel bag and backpack, she disappears through the door to the storage room.
“Toilet paper in da house!”
I laugh as Jean-Pierre stumbles inside, shaking off the rainwater slicking his face and hair. He has two huge sixteen-roll packages of toilet paper under each arm.
“Hallelujah!” I applaud as he shuffles around people on his way to the bathrooms.
When he comes out empty-handed, he joins me behind the bar.
“I appreciate all your help today,” I tell him. He’s been with me since early this morning, readying the bar for the party. “And as a thank-you, I got you this.” From beneath the bar I whip out the brown felt fedora he’s been eyeing every time he walks by the posh little clothing boutique three doors down from our building.
“Maggie!” He reverently reaches for the hat, running his fingers along the blue-and-white-striped band. “No! Dis is too expensive!”
I lift one shoulder. “I was able to negotiate Donny down a bit on the price.”
Jean-Pierre gives me the side-eye. “You used your feminine wiles on him. Admit it.”
“There may have been some light flirting involved,” I concede.
It’s no secret in our neighborhood that Donald P. Seitz, owner of D.S. Haberdashery, has a weakness for a wink and a smile. Considering he’s nearly ninety, sports fun bow ties and the most amazingly architectural comb-over, offering him winks and smiles isn’t any hardship.
“Thank you.” Jean-Pierre pulls me in to press a kiss to the top of my head.
“You’re more than welcome,” I tell him, picking a corner of toilet paper from where it’s stuck on his sleeve. Holding it up, I quirk an eyebrow. “You think we have enough this time?”
He grimaces. “We better. My ass still hasn’t recovered from da last hurricane party when we ran out and had to use paper towels and cocktail napkins.”
I chuckle in memory, watching the activity around the bar as folks settle in with card games and board games and battery-powered radios for if and when we lose the juice. Which reminds me… “Did you make that playlist I asked for?”
“Everything from “Rock You Like a Hurricane” by da Scorpions to “Ridin’ the Storm Out” by REO Speedwagon. I even included “Hurricane Betsy” ’cause I know Miss June likes Lightnin’ Hopkins. Speakin’ of…your aunts comin’?”
I shake my head. “They took Vee and went up to the cabin. Auntie June says her bones are too old for sleeping on the floor, and you know my aunt Bea likes her creature comforts.”
Jean-Pierre nods. “So who we left waitin’ on?”
I look around, comparing the faces I see with the folks who RSVP’d. “Lauren and her sister. Chrissy’s husband Harry. And Cash and Luc, of course.”
Jean-Pierre twists his lips.
“What?” I demand.
“Luc and Lauren, dat didn’t work out, no?”
I shrug. It seems like a long time ago that I tried to play Cupid for Luc and set him up with my spinning instructor. “Guess I need to hang up my matchmaking credentials.”
“Don’t do dat.” He gives my arm a squeeze. “Me, I’m dependin’ on you to find my first husband.”
“Ha!” I sock his shoulder. “My good conscience won’t let me if you keep referring to him that way. The only way I can agree to set you up with someone is if I believe he could be the one. The forever and ever, amen, one.”
He shakes his head sorrowfully. “You’re such a sentimentalist, cher. And on dat note…” He hitches his chin toward the front door.
Luc is standing inside the threshold, his dark hair damp with rainwater. An army-green duffel bag is casually tossed over one shoulder.
I’m so happy to see him, my stomach somersaults.
“Holy Mary, mother of God,” Gus’s wife, Debra, breathes from the table near the front window where she and her sons are playing gin rummy. She’s staring at Luc like he’s the next coming of Christ.
“Momma.” Her eldest son elbows her.
She shakes her head and pretends to refocus on the game. But she continues to shoot Luc furtive glances as he saunters over to the bar. In fact, everyone sporting double-X chromosomes is watching Luc. But, bless him, he’s completely oblivious as he hops atop a barstool.
“You made it.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m so glad.”
Luc and Jean-Pierre exchange handshakes. Then Yard wakes up, yawns, stretches, and whines that whine that all dog owners recognize.
“I’ll take him,” Jean-Pierre says.
“No. I’ll do it,” I protest, but he waves me off.
“No reason for you to get wet when I’m already halfway there.” He carefully stows his new fedora on a shelf beneath the bar and grabs Yard’s leash.
I go up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I love you, you know.”
He sighs dramatically. “Join da crowd.”
After he clips on Yard’s leash, the two of them disappear through the front door and I notice the wind is picking up and the rain is now coming down in sheets. It smells like the sea, salty and fishy and slightly sweet. So different from the storms that blow in overland from the north.
“Did you talk to Cash?” I ask Luc.
The look on his face makes my heart sink.
“He’s not coming.” I don’t pose it as a question.
“He said he’d rather ride things out at home. After all the work we’ve put into the place, he wants to hang ’round and make sure the wind and rain don’t do any damage.”
I frown. “And you believe that?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head.
I nod, my heart dropping further. “You think it’s because of his drinking? Because he doesn’t want a captive audience for the next couple of days?”
“Yep.”
“Dang it.” I glance out the window, foolishly hoping that, despite Luc’s words, I’ll see Cash on the street headed this way.
“I tried wheedling and begging and talking reason to him, but…” Luc spreads his hands. “He was having none of it.”
I hate what this injury is doing to Cash. Of the three of us, he was always the social one. He used to love a good party. Now he’ll spend the storm alone, locked away in an unfinished house with only a few sticks of furniture.
“Look who I found!” Jean-Pierre barges back through the door with a sopping-wet Lauren and her bedraggled younger sister in tow.
Chrissy’s husband saunters in behind the group, touching one finger to the brim of his dripping baseball cap when his eyes meet mine. That’ll probably be the extent of our interaction over the next couple of days.
Okay, so that’s it. All the guests have arrived.
“Welcome one and all!” I paste on a smile that no longer feels natural. Cash’s absence has cast a dark gloom over the entire affair. “Make yourselves at home!”
Jean-Pierre unleashes Yard to run over for belly scratches from Gus’s oldest son, and then he heads toward the bar. After claiming a stool beside Luc, he asks, “Cash?”
I shake my head.
He nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. I know what he’s thinking. It’s what we’re all thinking.
A large gust of wind whips through the front door, blowing things off tables. Folks cry out as cards and game pieces go flying.
“Batten down the hatches, everyone!” I yell.
“Wait for me!”
I close my eyes. Relief and joy and a hundred other emotions swirl through me as surely as the wind swirls outside. When I open them, I find Cash rushing through the front door before Debra can kick aside the river rock I use as a doorstop and haul it shut. He stands on the threshold, dripping and
grinning that devil-may-care grin that stole my heart all those years ago.
“Now you can batten down the hatches,” he says with a firm jerk of his chin.
When I think about the long string of hours that stretch out before me like precious pearls, whole days when I can be with him, be near him, I can’t help but smile.
“Okay, folks.” I clap my hands, my festive mood instantly restored. With the doors and window shut, the inside of Bon Temps Rouler is strangely quiet. That won’t last for long. “We’re in it for the long haul. So let’s get this party started!”
Another cheer goes up. Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” croons from the speakers when Jean-Pierre cues up his playlist. And Chrissy steps behind the bar to help me start pouring drinks.
Some lessons in life you learn when things are calm and quiet. Others come your way during a storm.
Little do I know, but I’m about to be taught one of those stormy life lessons. And afterward, things will start to change…
Chapter Fifty-two
______________________________________
Luc
Dear Luc,
Today I took my guitar out to the swamp house—told you I’d go back. I poled your pirogue into the middle of nowhere and practiced playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” until I could get through it without one mistake.
You were teaching it to me before you left, remember? Now, anytime I pick up my guitar and play that song, I think of you and all the fun we had. Which inevitably brings me back to the first time we met. And THAT makes me remember all those hours we spent together in the library, sitting side by side, not saying anything, just reading.
I think I’ll start the Harry Potter series again soon. I miss Dumbledore.
I mean, who WOULDN’T miss a guy who says things like, “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”
You were MY light back then. You saved me from the darkness. You’re my light even now, because anytime I get too low or too lonely, I can come out here and feel close to you.
Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2 Page 16