Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

“Fuck Dr. Stevens! I don’t care what he says. What you and I had is over. Done. It was wonderful and pure and In. The. Past!”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re trying to be selfless! Because you don’t believe you can be helped, and you don’t want to saddle me with your injury and your pain and—”

  He shoves away from the table, standing so quickly his chair tips over. Yard yelps and scurries from the kitchen to join the cats beneath the sofa in the living room.

  “Stop it, Maggie.” His voice has gone frighteningly soft. “By trying to force something now, you’re ruining what we had.”

  That takes me aback. The idea is abhorrent, tunneling through my brain like a diseased worm.

  “Cash, please.” I grab his hand.

  “Stop touching me!” He shakes me off.

  A hard sob threatens, and I gulp past it so I have the breath to beg, “Don’t do this. Don’t push me away because you think it’s better to be strong than vulnerable around people who love you.”

  “Cash,” Luc says quietly. “Listen to Maggie May.”

  “Stay out of this,” Cash hisses. “This is between me and her.” He swings back to me. “It’s over, Maggie. Even if this neurosurgeon can help me, it’s over. Ours was the kind of love only possible between innocent and inexperienced hearts.”

  “You don’t mean that.” Lord, that might be the saddest, most pathetic thing I’ve ever said.

  “I do mean it. I loved you then, and I love you now. But it’s not the kind of love you’re hoping for.” When I shake my head, he glares at me. “You’re going to make me come out and say it, aren’t you?”

  I can feel my chin wobbling. “I guess you have to.”

  “I don’t want you. Not like that. Not anymore. And I’m sorry I didn’t admit it earlier, but I was trying not to hurt your feelings.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I whisper, my heart clinging to denial like it’s a life raft.

  He throws his head back and yells, “Fuck!” at the ceiling. Then he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and reaches for the door handle.

  “Where are you going?” Luc stands.

  “Home,” Cash grits from between clenched teeth.

  When the door clicks shut behind him, I try to stand and go after him, but I’m dizzy. I can’t tell up from down.

  Luc is quick to thread an arm around my waist, steadying me. “Come with me, Maggie May,” he says.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I let him guide me into the living room where he settles onto the sofa and pats his lap in invitation. Even though I’d love nothing more than to be cradled and comforted, knowing what I know now about how he feels, that wouldn’t be right. So instead of his lap, I choose the spot next to him and rest my head against his shoulder.

  “Do you think love has an expiration date?” I ask, feeling unaccountably tired. “If you don’t use it by a certain time, do you think it turns sour?”

  Luc is quiet for a moment, considering my question. Eventually, he shakes his head. “No. I think true love is endless. Boundless. Eternal.”

  I laugh, but it’s devoid of humor. “Then tell me what I’m supposed to do about Cash.”

  His tone is somber. “Keep on loving him, I reckon. Loving him and supporting him and rooting for him.”

  “Even when loving him hurts?”

  “Especially then.” Now, there’s a hint of sadness in his voice. “It’s like most things in life. If it’s worth having, it’s not gonna come easy.”

  I think on that for a while. Then I get up the courage to ask the question that’s topmost on my mind. “Do you believe him when he says he doesn’t want me like that anymore?”

  He doesn’t answer at first, causing me to look up at him. I find he’s staring into the middle distance, and tugging on his ear.

  Old habits have me reaching up to help him out, and he tilts his cheek into my palm, his beard stubble scratchy against my skin. I take comfort in the solidity of him for a brief moment before pulling my hand away.

  I know he wants things to be normal between us. I know he wants me to act like nothing has changed. But I can’t go back to touching him with such familiarity without feeling a niggle of discomfort.

  “He’s different,” he finally admits. “Changing. I can’t read him anymore. So truth to tell, I don’t know what to believe. All I know is, no matter what happens between the two of you in the end, you’ll wanna look back on this without regret.”

  He pauses so he can sigh deeply. “So my advice to you is to make your decision about whether you wanna continue to push him for more, or decide to accept the friendship he’s offering based on how you’re gonna feel about everything a year from now. Ten years from now. Act in a way that means you never hafta say ‘I’m sorry.’”

  I already am sorry, I realize. I’ve been pushing Cash, not listening to him. The look on his face when he jumped up from my kitchen table… Good Lord.

  A guilty breath escapes me before a mournful howl reminds me that my poor dog has been traumatized. I go down on one knee beside the sofa and coax Yard out from under it. He belly-crawls to me, whining pitifully.

  “It’s okay, sweet pea,” I croon, gathering him into my arms. “I wasn’t mad at you. I’m sorry I yelled.”

  After settling myself into the corner of the sofa, he’s quick to snuggle against me, his tail thumping the back cushions.

  Dogs are wonderful in their capacity to forgive and forget. We humans could learn a thing or two.

  “Thank you for staying, Luc.” I try to firm up the trembling smile I give him. “But I know you probably want to go check on Cash.”

  “Eventually.” He nods. “For now, there’s no place I’d rather be than right here.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “What?” He cocks his head.

  “When you’re with a person, you have this way of making them feel like they’re the only thing that matters.”

  It’s not really a smile he gives me, more a subtle deepening of his dimples. “One of my many, many talents, I reckon.” He wiggles his eyebrows, attempting to lighten the mood.

  “I’m serious. It’s a gift, and to be on the receiving end of it is a heady rush.”

  “You think so?” His expression turns thoughtful.

  He’s a lot like the bayou. On the surface, he always looks placid and serene. But there are deep currents swirling beneath.

  “Yes.” I nod. Then, because I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, I clear my throat and glance at the guitar on the wall. An idea occurs. “If you’re of a mind to stay, will you play something for me? Something soft and sweet? Yard’s nerves are shot, and the cats—”

  “Nerves are always shot,” he interrupts, chuckling.

  “Only Sheldon,” I argue. “Leonard is much more easygoing.”

  As if on cue, the Roomba hums to life and disengages from its dock in the corner. It begins its daily job of attempting to stay on top of the pet hair that I’ve accepted as a part of life.

  Leonard darts from beneath the sofa to climb aboard. He sits primly atop the device, curling his tail around his feet and closing his eyes until they’re barely slits. This is his version of kitty heaven.

  “See?” I thrust my chin in his direction. “Told you. He’s like the California surfer dude of cats. You can’t stop the waves, broham, but you can learn to surf.” I flash the hand sign for take it easy.

  Luc laughs. “It’s the damnedest thing.” Then he gets up to snag my guitar. Retaking his seat, he pulls the strap over his head. But before he plucks out a tune, he says, “How about a little quid pro quo? I play you something soft and sweet, and you play me ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’”

  I narrow my eyes. “Someone’s been reading my letters.”

  “They’re a pleasure.”

  “A pleasure?” I lift an eyebrow.

  “Every evening, when I’m home alone and sitting out on the front porch, I get to take a trip ba
ck in time and commune with teenage Maggie May.”

  I make a face. “I warned you I don’t have your way with words.”

  “On the contrary, I think you’re a beautiful writer. Your letters are sweet and funny, poignant and sad. They’re you when you were that age. I’m loving every word.”

  I swallow, searching for something to fill the silence because…there it is again. That uncomfortable feeling in my chest because I know his words aren’t just the words of a friend.

  Thankfully, he takes pity on me. “So whatcha wanna hear?”

  “You still remember how to play that Jason Mraz song I loved so much? “I’m Yours”?”

  He immediately begins to strum, reciting the lyrics as smoothly and confidently as if he’s sung them every day for the past ten years.

  Hugging Yard close, I lose myself in the power of his playing and the hypnotic tenor of his voice. By the time the song is over, I’ve convinced myself that the discomfort I feel at being around him now—and especially the discomfort I feel when I touch him—is all one-sided.

  I should just get over myself.

  So he held a candle for me. So what? That doesn’t change who he is. It doesn’t change what we have. The only thing that’s changed is that now I know.

  Yard hops from my lap, curling into a doggy doughnut at my feet when Luc passes me the guitar.

  “Whatever happened to you becoming a songwriter?” I ask as I pull the strap over my head.

  “Life happened.”

  “Amen to that. But you’re still young. There’s still time.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “But I’ve heard too many folks say that once they turn their passion into profit, all the enthusiasm and joy go out of it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, owning Bon Temps Rouler is a lot of work. And there’re certainly things about the gig I could do without. Replacing urinal cakes being one of them.” I wrinkle my nose. “But most days I love going into work. Passion and profit can go hand in hand if you know what you’re doing. If you’re careful to remain true to yourself. Your dreams have been delayed, Luc, but you shouldn’t give up on them.”

  I realize I’m doing it again. Trying to make someone do what I want instead of listening, truly listening to what they want.

  “Sorry,” I blurt, looking down at the guitar to position my fingers over the correct frets. “Don’t listen to me. Just listen to your heart.”

  He’s quiet for a while, but eventually he says, “I always do.”

  Something in his voice has my head snapping up. I search his eyes, but can’t see anything worrisome. He’s looking at me the way he’s always looked at me.

  Stop making things weird! I scold myself.

  “I haven’t practiced this song in years,” I warn him.

  “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “I’m a forgiving audience.”

  Finding the chords, I begin to strum. Slowly at first and then with growing confidence, until soon the melody is flowing from my fingers as easily as a memory.

  When I’m finished, we pass the guitar back and forth a few times, taking turns sharing the songs we’ve learned. Then he returns the six-string to the wall and comes over to offer me a hand up from the sofa.

  “Better go check on Cash now,” he says, proving what a true and loyal friend he really is.

  I’m a terrible person, because I’ve never stopped to consider how difficult it must be for him to love me and Cash in equal measure, and I’m reminded of the nightmare I had about him hooking up with Eva. All the hypothetical things I worried about, having to juggle loyalties, having to carefully straddle the line between both parties, sometimes being forced into choosing sides. All of those things are Luc’s realities.

  “Should I come with you?” I bite my lip. “I owe Cash an apology.”

  “Nah.” He shakes his head. “Give him a day or two to cool off. Then go talk to him.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “But will you do me a favor? Will you tell him that I get it now? Will you tell him that I…” I stop and search for the words. “That I understand?”

  “Come here.” He pulls me in for a hug. I welcome the reassuring thump of his heartbeat against my ear. “It’s gonna be okay, Maggie May. You’re gonna be okay.”

  “I know.” I turn my face into him. Allowing myself to relish his comforting Luc smell. But as soon as I do, it’s back. That uncomfortable feeling that makes me want to jerk out of his arms.

  This time, however, I don’t give in to the instinct. This time I make myself stay and study it. Picking it apart and turning it over in my head, I realize my blood is warm and rushing through my veins. My breaths are shallow, each one hard and fast. And my skin is sensitized. Everywhere we touch, I—

  Oh, Lord have mercy.

  Is it possible I want him?

  No. No! That can’t be right. He’s Luc.

  Obviously, I’m as lost as last year’s Easter egg. This thing with Cash has discombobulated me until I’m mixing everything up. Until black is white and up is down and wrong is right.

  Yeah. That’s it. That has to be it.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  Dear Luc,

  I drove across the causeway today.

  Auntie June and Aunt Bea needed to attend the funeral of a friend who lived in Mandeville. Since the service was held in the evening, and since neither of them likes to drive after dark, I volunteered to take them.

  It was weird to spend twenty minutes racing over a bridge spanning nothing but open water. It made me realize how HUGE Lake Pontchartrain really is. By comparison, I felt small. Which for some reason reminded me of the time you and I were talking about the meaning of it all.

  Do you remember?

  I said I didn’t know why any of us are here, or what it’s all supposed to be about. But you said you thought the answer to “What is the meaning of life?” could be found in the question itself.

  You said that life IS the answer. To exist. To leave your mark on those around you knowing that, in turn, they will leave their mark on others.

  “It’s like tossing a bunch of pebbles into a pond,” you said. “They start out as individuals, but they cause ripples to spread across the surface of the water. Eventually, those ripples mix and mesh until what you’re left with is a lovely, chaotic resonance that screams, ‘I was here even though you can’t see me!’”

  Anyway, I figured I’d write and tell you that I still feel your ripples, still hear your resonance. You’re still with me even though I can’t see you.

  Forever and always, Maggie May

  How do you know if you’re at the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end?

  As I sit beside Cash and Maggie inside DA Broussard’s sparsely decorated office, that’s the question that keeps spinning around inside my head.

  Is this the beginning of the end of Rick Armstrong and George Sullivan? Or are we only at the end of the beginning with them? Is there still a long and treacherous road to travel before their malevolence and dirty dealing are done for good?

  “I called you all in this afternoon,” Broussard says, “to give you an update on my progress.” He leans back in his chair, his intelligent blue eyes traveling over the three of us. The only nod in his office to the upcoming holiday is his red-and-green-striped tie.

  “But don’t become accustomed to the courtesy,” he continues. “While I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, the fact remains that it’s in my hands now, and things will begin to move quickly. I won’t have time to check in with you. Nor would it be my inclination to do so even if I did have the time.”

  He clears his throat. “Pardon my candor. But I work best when I work free of interference. So this is a one-time shot. Be sure you get all your questions answered here and now. Going forward, I’ll refuse to field phone calls or oblige emails. Although, I do appreciate the list of folks you sent me.” He looks at Maggie. “However, my advice to you is t
o let the professional sleuths do the rest of the sleuthing.”

  She jerks her chin up and down. “Yes, of course. I was only trying to help. I felt like Cash and Luc were doing all the heavy lifting what with trailing Rick around town and—” She cuts herself off when Broussard narrows his eyes. He has the bearing of a hound on the scent of a fox. He’d much rather be elbow-deep in evidence than sitting here talking to the three of us. That much is obvious.

  “You’re absolutely right.” She holds up her three middle fingers. “On my word, I’m hanging up my Sherlock Holmes hat.”

  “Good.” Broussard nods curtly. “Now here’s where things stand. As you know, I was waiting for a like-minded friend to return from vacation before attempting to secure a warrant. But what I didn’t mention was that I wasn’t simply after a warrant for Richard Armstrong’s residence. I was after warrants to search his businesses as well. As I’d hoped, after hearing the recording you made”—he points a finger at Cash—“I was able to obtain everything I asked for this morning.”

  My knuckles ache, and I realize I have death grips on the armrests of my chair. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but after all the delays (and considering the unwillingness of any of the blackmail victims to help us) part of me expected to walk into Broussard’s office only to run face-first into another wall. But maybe, just maybe, the tide has turned our way.

  “When do you present the warrants to my sperm donor?” Cash asks. His wanness is severe today. The skin beneath his eyes looks bruised, and his lips are dry and cracked. When he rubs a hand under his chin, I notice it’s shaking.

  Has he not had enough to drink? Or has he had way too much over the last few days? Ever since his blowup at Maggie’s apartment, he’s been downing the Gentleman Jack like it’s going out of style. I’ve had to redo half of the work he’s attempted on the house, because everything he’s touched has been complete and utter dog shit.

  “They’ve already been presented,” Broussard says. “Every business Mr. Armstrong owns has been raided and his records seized. He was still home when I showed up on his doorstep with my team of investigators. And he wasn’t too happy to open that safe for us even after reading the warrant that required him to do exactly that. But when I threatened to arrest him on the spot if he didn’t comply, he worked his way around to being cooperative.”