Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  “What happened in biology class?” I ask. “Refresh my memory. You know you want to.”

  Her expression is one of distaste. “Nothing happened, per se. You just flirted with me something awful and then made plans to meet me at the diner after school.”

  A fleeting memory skips through my broken brain. A conversation with a dark-haired girl on my first day. Asking her what everyone did for fun after classes. Telling her I’d see her at the local hangout that afternoon.

  Except…the minute I stepped through the door of that dingy diner, I spotted Luc. And, more important, Maggie. After that, everything and everyone else was forgotten. Including, apparently, Violet Carter.

  Damn. Well, at least now I know she doesn’t hate me because she thinks I’m not good enough for her baby sister. She hates me because of me.

  “I was an ass back then,” I admit. It’s not a defense. It’s merely the truth.

  “You’re an ass now,” she counters.

  In response, I salute her with my whiskey.

  “Cash!” Maggie squeals, bursting through the door leading from the back. She has a bottle of champagne in one hand and a mug full of eggnog in the other. Her sweater is such a hideous monstrosity of garland and rhinestones and cheap plastic doodads that I don’t know if it’s the sight of it, or the high, excited pitch of her voice that sends a spike through my skull. “You made it!”

  I can tell by her heightened color that she’s had too much to drink. When she goes up on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, I close my eyes at the wildflower smell of her, feeling like a drowning man who’s in love with the water.

  She is the alpha and omega of my life. The beginning and the end and everything in between.

  When I open my eyes again, Violet has wandered off in the direction of the back table where Luc and three others are playing Texas Hold’em. After Maggie delivers the champagne to her aunts, she comes to stand next to me, looking up at me with such unflagging understanding and acceptance.

  She breaks my heart and makes me whole, and all I want is to fall into her arms. But I can’t. I can’t. For once in my life, I have to do what’s right.

  “Is everything okay?” Her eyes travel from me over to Violet and back again.

  “Fine,” I assure her, managing a smile that feels fake and makes my facial muscles ache. “In fact, everything is better than fine. Broussard arrested Rick yesterday. Did you hear?”

  “I heard.” Some of the holiday cheer slips from her face.

  “So why aren’t you jumping for joy? We did it! He’s going down!” I do a quick move like I’m slam-dunking a basketball and say, “Booyah!”

  One corner of her mouth hitches. But it’s only one corner. “Yeah. I know. It’s just…”

  “Just what?” I prompt when she lets the sentence dangle.

  “I can’t shake this feeling that something bad is going to happen. That setting this thing into motion will have unintended consequences.”

  “Stop worrying. ’Tis the season to be jolly.” I grab the gift from the top of the bar and thrust it into her arms. “Merry Christmas.”

  That does it. A slow grin stretches her lips until she’s beaming and looking like the sparkly, shiny girl who first stole my heart.

  “Hang on.” She sets her eggnog aside. “I got you something too.” She snags a gift bag striped like a candy cane from a shelf beneath the bar.

  When she hands it to me, I wiggle my eyebrows. “Please tell me this is a Nicolas Cage T-shirt. Miss June and I can be twins.”

  She laughs, and for a moment, all that’s wrong with the world is set right. “Open it and find out.”

  Reaching into the bag past the tissue paper, I pull out a heavy silver picture frame. It’s one of those that has slots for six different photographs, and I instantly recognize the pictures she’s included. They’re the ones from the time capsule. The ones from that lazy summer day the three of us spent at the swamp house.

  A lump forms in my throat. When I take a sip of whiskey, it gets stuck and sends me into a coughing fit that doesn’t do my clamoring cranium any favors.

  She whacks me on the back until I’ve cleared the Gentleman Jack from my airways. I must be wearing a terrible look, because her brow pinches. “You don’t like it? But I thought you said that was your favorite memory and—”

  “I love it, Maggie.” My voice is hoarse. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  Her expression softens. “I thought it could pull double duty. It’s a Christmas gift and a housewarming gift.”

  Since I can’t tell her how much it hurts to see the three of us as we were back then—so young and happy—especially considering how things have been going lately and how they’re bound to turn out, I hitch my chin toward the gift she holds. “Your turn. Open it.”

  She squeals and tears into the paper, tossing it heedlessly aside. Using the edge of her thumbnail, she cuts through the tape securing the top flaps of the box. She’s always had a childlike exuberance when it comes to presents.

  Most people prefer either to be a giver or a receiver, but Maggie likes both equally. She loves the thrill of finding the perfect gift that will make someone smile. And she loves unwrapping a treasure that someone picked out especially for her.

  When she pulls the shadow box from the bed of tissue paper and sees what’s inside, she gasps and places a steadying hand on the bar. Her eyes instantly brim with tears.

  “They told us these were lost.” She shakes her head as if she’s having trouble believing what her eyes are telling her. “How did you find them?”

  I look down at the two gold wedding bands affixed to a bed of black felt. One is large, while the other is dainty. They’re both inscribed with David and Trina followed by the date 6-24-1989.

  “I read somewhere that the morgues were crazy after the storm and that a lot of personal effects got misplaced. But after the chaos died down, the stuff was boxed up and sent to the police department. I asked Rory Ketchum if I could spend an afternoon going through the boxes.” I point to the shadow box. “And there they were. Stuffed in an envelope in the fifth storage bin I tried.”

  “Oh, Cash! Thank you.”

  She throws her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek next to mine so that I feel the heat of her tears. Despite my agony, my blood begins to race the instant she’s flush against me.

  It’s always been this way for me. Immediate, overwhelming desire. Burning, overpowering need. Proof that I was a big, fat liar when I stood in her kitchen and told her I don’t want her.

  I blow out a relieved breath when she releases me to rush over to her aunts, calling to Violet, “Come see what Cash gave me for Christmas!”

  Violet takes her sweet time getting there. But when she finally spies the rings, her throat works over a swallow. She turns to stare at me.

  I try to read her expression, but it’s incomprehensible.

  When Miss Bea and Miss June gush over the gift, it feels like every person in the bar gets up to crowd around Maggie and that damned shadow box. And when Maggie looks up and catches my eye, her cheeks shiny with tears, I realize my mistake.

  This gift is too intimate.

  No wonder she’s been holding on to hope. No wonder she thought she could gently sway me into coming back to her. Call me Mr. Mixed Signals.

  Fuck! I should’ve given the rings to Luc to give to her.

  My headache instantly jumps from a firm nine on the pain scale to a resounding ten. And there’s an annoying ringing in my left ear.

  I have to get out of here.

  Now.

  I stuff the picture frame back into the gift bag, set my empty rocks glass atop the bar, and quietly slip out from behind the long mahogany expanse. Rushing for the front door, I rake in a deep breath once I’m outside. Unfortunately, the cool breeze and the cheerfully decorated storefronts of The Quarter do nothing to soothe my head or my regret.

  And now my left arm is tingling.

  “You didn’t tell me you were aiming to do that.�
��

  I turn to find Luc leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, his eyes seeing…too much.

  I clench my jaw. “Didn’t think she’d make such a big deal about it.”

  Light glows around him in the open doorway, making him look bigger and bulkier than he already is. “It’s her folks’ wedding bands. If finding them isn’t a big deal, I don’t know what is.”

  “I wanted to give her something special. I wanted…”

  I glance out into the street. Most people are tucked in with their families tonight, visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. Consequently, the Vieux Carré is eerily quiet. So quiet that, even above the ringing in my ear and the dulcet sounds of Eartha Kitt echoing from the jukebox inside, I can hear the soft rumble of the Mississippi racing by more than two hundred yards away.

  It’s weird. Lately, I’ve been noticing the little things. Hearing and seeing and smelling details that I never did before. I don’t know if I’ve become more cognizant of life’s little minutiae, or if it’s something else. If it’s something to do with my brain.

  When I’m quiet for too long, Luc prompts, “You want what, Cash? ’Cause damned if I can figure you lately. It’s like you’re beckoning Maggie May close with one hand and pushing her away with the other.”

  “I know.” I stare at the cracked sidewalk beneath my work boots and try to think past the crushing sensation of a past that promises no future.

  “You gotta make up your mind, man. This push and pull isn’t fair to her.”

  “For fuck’s sake! I know!” I glare at him. “I’ve worked out a plan to fix that.”

  He snorts. “There you go again. Talking up your plan. Well, I gotta tell you, from what I’ve seen of it so far, it’s complete and utter pig shit.”

  Before I can respond, Maggie appears beside him in the doorway. Silhouetted as she is, the garland sticking out from her sweater makes her look furry. A pint-sized Sasquatch.

  “Are you leaving already?” she asks.

  “Sorry, Maggie. My head is killing me.”

  She rushes toward me, placing a hand on my arm. Then she immediately wrenches it away. “Sorry. Old habits.”

  I sigh. Why the fuck does it have to be so complicated?

  “I don’t mind you touching me, Maggie. As long as we both agree on what it means. As long as we both know the rules.”

  “I thought you always said rules are meant to be broken.” The night is clear, and the stars shine in her angel eyes.

  “I was young and dumb when I said that.”

  “Well, at least you’re not young anymore.” She mimes a three-beat drum solo.

  As far as jokes go, it’s pretty lame. But I play along. “Hardy-har-har. When’s your next show? Midnight?”

  She winks. “I’m here all week.”

  I reach up to rub the scar above my temple. Beneath it beats a vicious heart.

  Her expression turns from teasing to concerned. “You should go home and get some rest so you can enjoy Christmas with Luc and Helene tomorrow. But thank you for coming. And thank you for the gift.” She clasps her hands in front of her chest, making a few of the rhinestones on her sweater gleam in the streetlight. “It means the world to me. Truly.”

  “You’re welcome.” I allow myself to hold her gaze, knowing this will likely be one of the last times she looks at me with such unconditional love. “Merry Christmas, Maggie.”

  I give in to impulse and bend to kiss her cheek. Her skin is so warm and smooth. It entices me to linger. But I remind myself to feel grateful for what was and forget what will never be.

  Then I turn away from her.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  The thing about tipping points is that you recognize them only in retrospect.

  Today is a tipping point.

  As I sit at a table inside Café Du Monde, eagerly waiting for Luc and Cash to arrive, I entertain myself by listening to the trio of college boys next to me. One is wearing a Tulane sweatshirt. Another is sporting a Tulane baseball cap. And the third has on a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses the color of a traffic cone.

  All of them have that clean yet slightly debauched frat-boy look about them. And, of course, they’re talking about their favorite subject—sex.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, man,” the one in the baseball cap says around a monster bite of beignet. “She poured maple syrup all over me and then said she was in the mood for a tall stack.”

  Sweatshirt rolls his eyes. “Lord Stud Muffin strikes again.”

  Baseball Cap grins, his lips covered in powdered sugar. “That’s stud spelled with two Ds on account of my talent for deep dicking.”

  “Jesus.” Sunglasses shakes his head, taking a sip of coffee.

  I try to hide my snicker behind my own mug, glad I’m well past the age of dealing with young men who still act and talk like adolescents. Then Luc and Cash push through the door, and the college boys are forgotten because…be still my heart.

  It’s bizarre. You can know a thing intellectually without ever internalizing its truth or its magnitude. Like, I know Cash and Luc are attractive men. But this morning, with the light pink and playful behind them, I’m struck by the sharp reality of them.

  Even though Cash’s condition and the heavy drinking are beginning to take their toll, even though he’s lost weight and the skin beneath his eyes looks dark and crepey, he still seems to glow in golden glory. And then there’s that smile that has unquestionably turned many women from Miss Look But Don’t Touch into Miss Panties Drop Like Hot Potatoes.

  In comparison, Luc has that whole darkly sensitive poet thing going for him. With his deep dimples, tanned skin, and thickly lashed eyes, one look at him and hearts melt. Broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, he’s an archangel fallen to earth. Every woman’s deepest, smuttiest fantasy and—

  I blink. That crazy sensation is back. My skin feels hot and tight. My stomach dips and swirls. There’s an unwelcome tugging low in my belly that I force myself to disregard as simple excitement over seeing them both again.

  It’s been five days since my Christmas Eve party. Ever since, I’ve been busy with family obligations and things at the bar. They’ve been busy with the house and trying to finish projects before all work grinds to a halt for New Year’s.

  We’ve exchanged a few text messages and tried to meet for a dinner that fell through because I had to cover Gus’s shift when he came down with food poisoning—which he blamed on the Jell-O mold his ninety-year-old grandmother brought to Christmas. And I didn’t realize how much I’d missed them until this moment, when they saunter toward me through the crowded café.

  They take turns kissing my cheek, bringing the crisp smell of the outdoors inside with them, and I’m the envy of every woman in the place. But when Cash sits down heavily, grimacing and running an agitated hand through his hair, my frivolous pride at being the sole beneficiary of their affection is quickly replaced by concern.

  Something more than the usual is wrong with him.

  I’ve been trying to forget about Rick Armstrong and George Sullivan. I’ve been convincing myself that DA Broussard has everything well in hand. But now I can’t help blurting, “What’s up? Did your dad make bail or something?”

  He frowns at me.

  “Sorry.” I’m quick to correct myself. “I mean your sperm donor.”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “You look like you sat on a porcupine.”

  His grin is lopsided. “That’s just my face these days.”

  “He’s not joking.” Luc waves down the waitress and puts in an order for two coffees—one black, one café au lait—as well as requesting a plate of beignets.

  After the waitress moves away, I study Cash. “Is it your head? Is it getting worse?”

  “Actually, I’ve felt better the last few days.” He grabs my coffee cup and takes a quick drink. Apparently, he’s too thirsty to wait for his own. Then he makes a
face. “Ugh. Chicory. I swear you can taste it more when you add the milk.”

  “Makes the taste buds sing, doesn’t it?” I’m relieved he’s feeling better. I want to ask about Dr. Stevens. See if he’s heard anything from the neurosurgeon. But I don’t dare bring up the subject. Way too touchy.

  “You people are nuts.” He wipes his hand over his mouth in an attempt to scrub away the flavor.

  “By you people, I’m assuming you mean we charming, intelligent, lovely Southern folks.”

  “Sure. Yeah. That’s what I mean. You realize chicory was originally sold as a coffee substitute for people too poor to afford the real stuff, right? It’s a dirty root that has absolutely no caffeine. A root for fuck’s sake. Drinking it is like drinking muddy potato water.” He looks around at the bustling café. “And while we’re on the topic of things that don’t make any sense, why the hell do we always come here? It’s a tourist trap. Too crowded and too expensive. Why don’t we go to Morning Call instead?”

  “He’s in fine form this morning, if you haven’t noticed,” Luc observes.

  “I’ve noticed.” I nod. “And to answer your question, even if the taste of chicory wasn’t a delight, it’s humble origins are the whole point. You know people down this way love tradition. As for Morning Call, they serve their beignets naked. It’s scandalous!”

  “Exactly.” Cash lifts a finger. “They let you add precisely the amount of powdered sugar you want. Far more democratic, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you,” Luc and I answer at the same time, smiling at each other.

  Remembering what started us on this topic to begin with, I say, “Okay, so if it isn’t your sperm donor and it isn’t your head, what’s got you wearing a face that looks like ugly on an ape?”

  His mouth flattens, reminding me of Kermit the Frog. “I can’t decide on cabinetry.”

  It’s such a mundane, everyday, first world problem—and so completely not what I was expecting—that I blink. A snort escapes me. “Seriously?”

  His chin juts out. “These are big decisions, Maggie. Cabinets aren’t like paint color. You can’t change them on a whim.”