Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  That would be a shame. The music is pretty. Haunting.

  In that way, it reminds me of your poems.

  Forever and always, Maggie May

  Whoever said life is one big party was absolutely full of shit.

  Life is hard. It beats you down and tears you up. It rolls you over and tosses you aside. But it also allows you moments of sweetness and joy. Of satisfaction and pleasure and pride and delight.

  Life isn’t one big party. It’s a roller-coaster ride. And on nights like tonight, I’m reminded that the combination of ups and downs is what keeps things interesting.

  Letting my gaze travel around Miss Bea’s festively decorated ballroom, I soak in the atmosphere and the raucous music. The sight of the gold and silver balloons waiting patiently in a net above my head for the midnight hour when they’ll be released to rain down on the crowd reminds me that, despite everything that’s happened and is still happening, I’m unbelievably glad to be home. And Jean-Pierre’s witty company makes me smile.

  For the last fifteen minutes, he’s been pointing out the debutantes in attendance and regaling me with salacious gossip about each of them. I doubt half the stories are true, but they’re damn entertaining.

  “She does not,” I declare, glancing at the twentysomething in the blue sequined cocktail dress who’s hanging on Cash’s arm—not Kelsey, but some new bird he’s taken a shine to tonight. The two of them are up by the stage where a jazz band keeps the party hopping with classics like Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train” and Thelonious Monk’s “’Round Midnight.”

  “Swear on my mawmaw’s grave.” Jean-Pierre lifts a hand. He’s wearing a sparkly black fedora with a hatband made of quarter-sized rhinestones. Jumping up from the table, he snags two canapés from the tray of a roving waiter, cradling them atop a napkin.

  When he sits back down, I remind him, “You forget I met your mawmaw at the fais-do-do. I know she’s alive and well. I still have the bruise on my ass where she pinched me to prove it.”

  He snorts. “Mawmaw’s always had an eye for handsome men, mais yeah? But back to Scarlet.” He gestures with one of the canapés toward Cash and his arm candy. She’s a redhead with long legs and hair held in place by so much hairspray that it looks stiff. “I got dat information straight from da horse’s mouth. She told me herself she goes over to a salon in da Tremé and pays a woman two hundred bucks to bleach her butthole.”

  I glance around furtively. The music isn’t overly loud here at the back of the ballroom, but Jean-Pierre still has to raise his voice to be heard above it.

  Thankfully, the couple at the table next to us is too busy trying to suck each other’s faces off to pay attention to our conversation. (Maggie wasn’t kidding when she said people let their hair down at this party. By Miss Bea’s standards, it’s a rager.)

  I look toward the stage and spot Scarlet aka Miss Bleached Butthole reaching down to squeeze Cash’s ass. Sitting up straighter, I dart a glance around the crowded room to see if Maggie caught the exchange. I don’t see her anywhere, but when I turn back to Jean-Pierre, I can tell he didn’t miss the move.

  “You reckon he’s drunk again?” he wonders aloud. “Or is he still tryin’ to make a point?” When I lift an eyebrow, he nods. “I know he’s your friend and all, but I think he’s more confused than a fart in a fan factory.”

  “Maggie told you what he’s been up to?”

  He shrugs. “She didn’t have to, mon ami. Me, I got eyes in my own damned head. And I was at da hurricane party, remember?”

  “Right.” I nod, frowning.

  Something’s up with Cash tonight. He was quieter than usual on the ride here, brooding almost. But when I asked what was wrong, he shook his head and told me, What could be wrong? Tomorrow’s a new year. Time for new beginnings. It’s all good.

  Except, it’s not all good. From the moment we walked through the door, he’s acted up. Acted out.

  He’s always been careful not to get sloppy around Maggie’s family, but tonight the Gentleman Jack is flowing like water. He’s laughing too loud. Dancing too long. And flirting way too much.

  A layman would see a guy celebrating the New Year. I see forced cheer.

  But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that if he wants to tell me what’s going on with him, he will. If he doesn’t? Well, a pack of wild dogs won’t drag it out of him.

  A cloud of expensive perfume engulfs me as long, slender arms wrap around my neck. I look up to find Eva, stunning in a slinky silver slip dress, standing behind me. “You made it!” I stand and kiss her cheek. “Maggie May said you were stuck in New York.”

  “I managed to get stand-by on the last flight.” She plops into the chair I pull out for her, snagging the last of Jean-Pierre’s canapés and washing it down with his entire flute of champagne.

  “Hey now!” he complains.

  She lifts a hand. “It’s ten minutes to midnight, and it’s a tradition that I ring in the New Year with food, booze, and dance. With that”—she motions toward the empty flute and bare napkin—“I’ve accomplished two out of the three.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jean-Pierre stands and offers her his hand. “You’re not exactly subtle, but… May I have dis dance?”

  She beams up at him, fluttering her lashes and pressing a hand to her chest. “Why, thank you, Jean-Pierre. Thought you’d never ask.”

  Before they head for the dance floor, she gives my arm a squeeze. “Happy New Year, Luc.”

  “Same to you, darlin’.” I wink and watch Jean-Pierre swing her into a fast two-step that makes her throw back her head and laugh.

  I’ve retaken my seat when Miss Bea joins me, sliding me one of the two flutes of champagne she brought with her.

  “It’s almost time,” she says, cupping her chin in her hand. The four-carat diamond on her finger catches the lights from the stage and nearly blinds me.

  “Indeed it is.” I smile. “You sure know how to throw a party, Miss Bea.”

  She sends me an amused look. “Does that mean you’re having fun?”

  “Always.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

  “But not as much fun as he’s having.” She tilts her perfectly styled head toward the front of the room.

  I don’t need to ask which he she’s referring to. And since I reckon there’s no use tiptoeing around the subject (not with Bea; she’s too canny not to recognize BS when she hears it), I admit, “Probably having more fun than him, actually. With Cash, especially nowadays, looks can be deceiving.”

  She takes a delicate sip of her champagne, fingering the double string of pearls that are her signature look. “Maggie hasn’t said much. But he’s in trouble, isn’t he? His head injury isn’t improving.”

  I swallow. “Doesn’t appear to be.”

  “And he’s pushing her away because he doesn’t want her to have to deal with it.”

  “So Maggie May claims.”

  That has her turning fully toward me. Her eyes are shrewd. “And what does Cash claim?”

  “That he loves her but doesn’t want her. Not like that. Not anymore.”

  For a while, she’s quiet. Digesting what I’ve told her. Then, “Do you believe him?”

  I realize I’ve been holding my breath when a sigh shudders out of me. “Truth to tell, Miss Bea, I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”

  She nods. Then, easy as you please, she adds, “But you still want her like that.”

  For a moment, I’m too shocked to respond. When I finally do, my tone is laced with disbelief. “Did she tell you?”

  Her brow wrinkles. Or at least it twitches. Which is about as close to wrinkling as the Botox will allow. “Who? Maggie? You mean she knows?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I told her how I felt about her, how I’ve always felt about her, at your Halloween ball.”

  Her eyes widen. “How’d she take it?”

  I shrug. “I think it made her uncomfortable at first. But now she seems to have settled into the idea.”

  In fac
t, over the last couple of weeks, she’s been pulling away from me less and touching me more. Plus, there’s something in her eyes when she looks at me now. I’m not sure what it is, if it’s acceptance or affection or simple acknowledgment. But whatever it is, it’s a balm to my heart. A salve to my soul.

  Bea shocks me with, “I always thought it was the two of you who belonged together.”

  “What?” I blurt. “Why?”

  She lifts a shoulder encased in shimmery gray fabric. “I suppose because it’s always seemed easy between you. Effortless. You…click.”

  I brush aside her words. “I don’t think Maggie May wants easy. She’s always enjoyed a challenge.” I tip my chin toward the front of the room. But instead of finding Cash getting pawed by Scarlet, I see that he appears to be in deep conversation (or, more accurately, a heated argument) with Violet.

  “Uh-oh.” I go to push away from the table, instinct propelling me to intervene, but Miss Bea stops me with a hand on my sleeve.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Let them work it out.”

  “Work what out?” I frown at her. “What’s going on?”

  “There.” She points. “See? All better.”

  Turning back toward the stage, I see Cash leading the redhead onto the dance floor. Violet is still in the same spot, watching them. She’s too far away for me to be sure, but her expression looks…shocked? Or maybe…sad?

  Again, I glance around to find Maggie glaringly absent. “What happened to Maggie May?” I ask.

  Miss Bea rolls her eyes. “My silly sister had too much to drink. Like she does every New Year’s Eve because she parks herself beside the champagne fountain and refuses to budge. Maggie took her upstairs and is putting her to bed with a tall glass of water and two ibuprofens.”

  I grin, envisioning Miss June all rosy-cheeked and glassy-eyed. But before I can comment, the band leader announces that there’s time for one more song before the countdown to midnight.

  The crowd cheers and the band picks up their instruments and tears into Ella Fitzgerald’s “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”

  “One more year in the books,” I say to Miss Bea, lifting my glass. “Here’s to what comes next.”

  “Here’s to us.” She clinks her long-stemmed glass against mine.

  We both take a sip. She hums her pleasure. I try not to make a face at the taste or the feel of tiny bubbles bursting against my tongue.

  Blame it on growing up poor, but I’ve never developed a taste for champagne. Beer and bourbon are my vices of choice. Proving you can take the boy out of the bayou, but you can never take the bayou out of the boy.

  Tonight, however, I’ve stayed away from both the beer and the bourbon and stuck, mostly, with club soda and lime. I’m driving home later. Cash offered to let me stay at his place. But the idea of starting a new year by waking up beside him on that mattress on the floor is too depressing to contemplate.

  Plus, I reckon he’s drinking enough for the both of us.

  “Did you save the last dance for me?”

  I turn to find Maggie standing behind me. She’s wearing a formfitting emerald cocktail dress that shows off the tuck of her waist, and the spaghetti straps emphasize the creamy skin over her shoulders. Black pumps lift her five inches off the ground, and her hair is twisted up, exposing her neck and the heart-shaped locket she never seems to be without. She’s wearing the matching silver filigree teardrop earrings I got her for Christmas.

  Hearts and teardrops. The two always seem to go hand in hand, don’t they?

  “How’s June?” Bea asks her.

  “Snoring like a chain saw through lumber.” Maggie laughs, then offers me a hand. “Well? May I have this dance, Mr. Dubois?”

  I plant a kiss on Miss Bea’s cheek and thank her for inviting me. “Happy New Year,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Happy New Year to you too, Lucien, my boy.” She pats my jaw, and her smile is affectionate.

  I never knew either of my grandmothers. They died before I was born. And looking at Miss Bea, feeling her warmth and caring, makes me yearn for those lost relationships.

  Then Maggie jerks me out of the chair and onto the dance floor, and I’m happy to forget about what I never had and enjoy what I do have. Namely, a beautiful woman in my arms who (even though she’ll never feel about me the way I feel about her) loves me just as I am.

  For a few minutes, we glide around the dance floor, our steps in sync as Maggie gracefully and effortlessly follows my lead. Then Cash and the redhead waltz by us on wobbly legs and I miss a step.

  They both appear drunk as skunks. When Cash catches my eye, I do my best to glower him into the ground.

  It doesn’t work. He feigns confusion and lifts a hand as if to say, What’d I do?

  “That man’s gonna wake up with regrets,” I mutter, my hand tightening on Maggie’s waist. “Mark my words.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “He’s always had a robust inclination toward self-forgiveness.”

  I glance down at her, expecting to find her wearing that slightly wounded expression that’s always a total gutshot. Instead, her face is…something. I don’t know what. Not sad, exactly. Maybe…resigned?

  “He’s an idiot,” I insist. “And his taste in women gets shittier by the minute.” I curve a thumb over my shoulder in his general direction. “That one looks like she fell outta the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

  “Please.” Maggie rolls her eyes. “Scarlet Jensen is gorgeous and you know it. Plus”—she makes a face—“she’s nice. Cash could do worse.”

  I search her eyes, frowning. “Are you truly okay with this?”

  For a moment, her chin wobbles. Then she firms it. “I have to be, right? I don’t want to have any regrets.”

  I blink because… Has she done it, then? Has she worked her way around to accepting Cash’s friends-only policy?

  If so, I don’t know whether to be happy for her or sad. Therefore, I simply nod and pull her close, resting my cheek atop her head.

  Unpleasant realities are a part of life. But how we handle them, with grace and aplomb or with whining and petulance, is what separates people into the categories of emotional adult or emotional infant. Maggie May has always struck me as an emotional adult. Even at the unripe age of fourteen, even when she was so lost in depression and guilt and self-blame that she was hard-pressed to find a reason to live, she was the embodiment of grace.

  My heart swells because I’ve had the privilege to know her. To call her friend.

  Unfortunately, that’s not the only part of me that swells.

  The press of her firm breasts against my chest, the subtle flex and rub of her thighs moving against mine as we dance, has my blood rising. The skin of her hand is soft in mine. Her hair is cool and smooth against my cheek.

  She is woman. Everything sweet and supple and mouthwateringly delicious. Everything a red-blooded man such as myself finds irresistible.

  I shift my hips away from her.

  The day I turned thirteen, my mother schooled me on the idea of a “consent boner.” She lectured me that unless someone agreed (With words, Lucien. They always have to agree with words.) to share my hard-on, then I’d best keep it to myself.

  Gritting my teeth, I silently begin to list my favorite jazz musicians. Anything to take my mind off the soft, sexy feel of Maggie’s body moving in time with mine. But I’ve managed to think of only six before the song ends and the band leader steps up to the mic.

  “Ten seconds till midnight!” he announces, and we’re surrounded by a mass of whooping and hollering partygoers as the crowd presses closer to the stage.

  A guy in a bright green dinner jacket jostles Maggie, sending her careening into me. I wince when her belly softly cradles the evidence of my desire. Then I make a face of chagrin when she tilts her chin back and looks up at me, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Sorry.” I shake my head, searching for a lighthearted explanation. “Sometimes the damn
thing still thinks it’s in American history class.”

  “Five!” the crowd chants. “Four!”

  I expect her to step back, to grab on to my lame-ass joke in an effort to alleviate the awkwardness. But she doesn’t move. She stays exactly where she is, pressed against me, hip to hip, chest to chest.

  There’s a change in the air. It’s grown heavy and humid with unexpected pressure.

  “Three! Two!”

  She goes up on tiptoe as the band breaks into a cacophonous rendition of “Auld Lang Syne,” and my heart pounds when her eyes land on my mouth a second before her perfect lips do.

  Her breath is warm and smells of chocolate cake and champagne. I close my eyes and convince myself that everything I’m feeling is one-sided. That the vibe I’m picking up is nothing more than wishful thinking.

  We’re friends. This is a friendly kiss. But then…oh…then her tongue tentatively grazes my bottom lip.

  My eyes snap open in time to watch her jerk away, out of my arms. She stares up at me, a hand covering her mouth as if she’s as shocked as I am.

  For a while, as the celebration rages around us, neither of us speaks. Then she blurts, “I have to go talk to Cash. Oh my Lord, Luc, I have to—” She cuts herself off, vigorously shaking her head.

  Even though people are cheering and blowing party horns, even though balloons are falling down around us, all I hear, all I see, is her.

  I don’t know what the hellfire is happening, but I feel like I need to apologize again. “Maggie May.” I reach for her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t do anything,” she interrupts, avoiding my touch. I curl my hand into a fist and shove it into my jacket pocket. “It’s me. I…” She swallows, her eyes as big as saucers. “I want you.”

  With that, she spins on her heel and pushes through the crowd. I would go after her, but I’m dealing with the fallout from the bomb that’s gone off in my brain.