Magnolia Moonlight

by Mary Ellis

  Following her instructions, Michael spotted the restaurant at the end of the row. “Couldn’t you have figured that out before we put down deposits everywhere in town?”

  “That is my one regret,” she whispered. “I made the right choice by not getting married, but I’m sorry I hurt you, Michael. You could be the only man I’ll ever love.”

  He ignored the manipulative lie as though no more consequential than a radio commercial. “Shall we go inside? I can smell the garlic and sweet basil even in the parking lot.”

  Inside the dimly lit bistro, Michael waited to resume serious conversation until after they had ordered. “Does this accounting firm that specializes in nonprofits have what you were looking for?”

  Her response was an unexpected burst of laughter. “Hardly. Jackson might be bigger than Brookhaven and have more restaurants, but it has basically the same family-oriented mind-set. Plus my work here is just as boring as it was at Anderson. I want excitement and adventure before I’m too old to enjoy it.” She blotted her lipstick on the linen napkin.

  Michael realized that was probably the most honest thing she had ever said. “So what’s next on your agenda? Any plans for the future?”

  Her eyes turned luminous in the candlelight. “Yes. That’s why I need you to reassure Mrs. Dean. Not that I have no compassion for a grieving widow, but I can’t have her causing a ruckus for me.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Beneath the table, Michael’s hands bunched into fists.

  Rachel took a piece of crusty bread from the basket. “A few weeks ago I applied for a position at a global consortium of accountants. Their clients are either wealthy individuals or international corporations. Every one of them places discretion high on their list of requirements. I recently found out they’ve narrowed the field to three candidates. I can’t tell you how much I want this job. The consortium has branches in Rome, Paris, London, and Tokyo. If hired, who knows where I could be sent? I would travel the world on private jets, be able to set my hours, and have conversations without catty secretaries listening in. D.K. has been no different than Anderson in that regard.”

  “Sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime, but I fail to see what Mrs. Dean has to do with your career aspirations.”

  Rachel leaned toward him as though about to divulge state secrets. “With competition so fierce, I don’t want my potential employer to find out about my misunderstanding with Paul Dean. That’s why I need to keep my current boss out of the loop. Who knows what George Roush could put in my employment file?”

  A misunderstanding with Paul Dean? Michael dabbed his bread in the olive oil for distraction. He had forgotten how self-serving Rachel was. Living in a big city had done little to nurture compassion or empathy.

  She took a bite of bread. “Please smooth things out with Alice Dean, at least for a few weeks. This new job can get me out of Mississippi forever. If you help me, I’ll be more than grateful. Who knows? Maybe one day you’ll be ready to put these cotton fields in your rearview mirror, and I’ll be in a position to help you. There’s a whole world out there if you could stand working with me again. The woman who stupidly let the best man she’d ever met slip away.” Rachel settled back as the waitress delivered a huge salad and a heaping platter of smoked meats, cheeses, and olives.

  “I don’t believe Mrs. Dean will present any problems.” He forced his lips into a smile. “Why don’t we get started? All this talk about the future made me hungry.”

  It was a bald-faced lie. Talking with the conniving scammer had nauseated him, but as Rachel pointed out, appearances were everything. Michael ate a portion of salad and tasted several different meats and cheeses. He feigned interest when she gave updates on a few mutual friends.

  Then, at the appropriate moment, his hand knocked over her water glass into her lap. Michael apologized profusely for his clumsiness, and when Rachel left to pat herself dry a bit more privately, he slipped her lipstick-smeared napkin and water glass into plastic bags. He quickly scanned the room, stowed the evidence in his briefcase, and replaced the napkin and goblet from an empty nearby table. When she returned from the restroom, he was refilling her water from the carafe.

  “I apologize again, Rachel.”

  “Don’t mention it. Soon I’ll be good as new.”

  Thank goodness for shadowy bistros where patrons minded their own business. If any of the waitstaff or fellow patrons had witnessed his sleight of hand, no one made mention. Soon Michael dropped off the three-headed serpent at her office amid a flurry of air kisses and false promises to stay in touch.

  Then he was on his way back to Natchez, eager to see Beth, the antithesis of Rachel in every possible way.

  FIFTY

  Bay St. Louis

  Tuesday evening, Craig walked into the casino’s coffee shop and scanned the assortment of patrons. Some were winding down after a day in the spa or at the slot machines. Others, like him, had just awoken from a midday nap and were anxious for the games to begin. He had no trouble spotting Nate Price. The guy sat hunched over a cup of coffee looking far less confident than he had in today’s meeting with casino security, the head of the poker room, and the retired card shark.

  “You look worried.” Craig slipped into the opposite side of the booth. “Did my ex try to poison you with her cooking?”

  Nate grimaced. “You forget that we’re staying at a B and B. Besides, you’re the one who needs to pull off the Big Sting, and you look terrible. Not at all like Robert Redford in that old movie.”

  Craig motioned to the waitress for coffee. “I couldn’t sleep because I was rehearsing every possible contingency in my mind. I am ready to take on Big Sam and every other high roller looking to separate this particular fool from his money.” He rubbed his knuckles as though preparing for a fistfight.

  Nate sipped his coffee. “It’s not too late to back out.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because it could get dangerous. Lewis said the buy-in is a quarter-million dollars. Maybe Big Sam can absorb that kind of loss, but some players could be staking their life savings on a card game.”

  “Like I said, fools and their money. Gamblers usually lose in the long run. Unfortunately, it took me a long time to figure that out.”

  “If one of those players finds out you hastened the inevitable, you could have more enemies than Mickey Pierce.”

  “Weren’t you paying attention? I don’t plan to cheat.”

  Nate shook his head like a stubborn child. “What if the special decks don’t show up?”

  “If I lose Pierce’s money waiting for the marked cards to appear, that’s on him. Pierce is in charge of those decks.” Craig smiled at the waitress, who was ready to take their order. “French toast, bacon, eggs over hard. And keep the coffee coming.”

  “How about you?” she asked Nate.

  “Nothing, ma’am. Just coffee.” Nate appeared to be chewing on a sour lemon.

  “Either spit out what’s bothering you or relax. Nothing will go wrong.”

  “What if you get caught up in the action and use those crazy glasses to win hand after hand? Lewis was very clear. If you use any illegal means to cheat on casino premises, you’ll be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  A jolt of anger spiked up Craig’s spine. “I was at the meeting, remember? Like I told security, I don’t plan to cheat.”

  Nate met his gaze. “I know you love poker. And I read gambling can be as strong an addiction as alcohol or drugs. Maybe I was wrong to set this up. Isabelle and I don’t want to enable you.”

  Craig took several deep breaths. “You’re not the one who set this up. I did so that I can get out from under my debt to a mobster. I’m truly amazed the Golden Magnolia is going along with the idea. They could have as easily turned me over to the police and washed their hands of me and my personal problems.”

  “Having possession of those glasses isn’t a crime. If they work, they can catch everyone connected to the ring. But there are so man
y things that could go wrong.”

  “You’ve always been a man of faith, Nate. Try having some now.” Craig glanced at his watch. “You’re right about gambling. My addiction destroyed my first marriage. I won’t let the past destroy my second. Despite what I told Cassie in Nashville, I love my wife more than life itself. I can’t live with the possibility of Pierce’s thugs coming after her.”

  “But if you’re playing against the house, I heard the house always wins.”

  Craig sighed. “Look, I’m grateful to you and Isabelle, but you know nothing about poker. You only play against the house at the table games on the casino floor. In real poker games, you’re playing against other players. And I’m better than the average Joe.”

  “If you gamble only until the marked cards appear, how can you be sure you’ll have enough to pay Pierce?”

  “I won plenty yesterday before Izzy showed up and spoiled my concentration. As for the rest? Let’s just say I’ve become a man of faith too.” Craig pushed up from the table just as the waitress delivered a plate of hot food.

  Nate clamped a hand on his arm. “Where are you going? There’s plenty of time before the game starts.”

  “Your negativity is bringing me down, old buddy. I’m going out to the marina to clear my head.”

  “But you need to eat. That game could go all night.” Nate sounded anxious.

  “You worry more than your wife.” Nevertheless, Craig forked the eggs in between slices of toast, topped it with strips of bacon, and wrapped it up in his napkin. “I’ll eat this sitting on the dock of the bay. Someone ought to write a song about that.” Craig winked and strolled out the door.

  Once he was away from Nate, Craig lost some of his bravado about the game. He hadn’t liked Johnny Herman during the meeting with casino officials. The guy had made several judgmental comments he didn’t need. Plenty of people had good reason to berate him, but not that old-timer. Why did Nate think a former poker pro would be helpful to his cause? But as long as Herman stayed out of his way and didn’t do anything stupid, there shouldn’t be a problem.

  Ninety minutes later, wearing his spiffiest clothes along with a wire to transmit every word said during the game, Craig headed to one of the poker rooms on the third floor. He took a final glance at Cassie’s picture, tucked it next to his heart, and knocked on the door. One of the executive hosts opened the door with a broad smile.

  “Mr. Mitchell, come in. Glad you’re feeling better.” Big Sam’s booming voice matched his girth.

  “Thank you for letting me come back, Mr. Malloy. I’m honored to play with a man of your reputation.”

  “Don’t know about my reputation, but this is a fair game. We might not all be friends here, but we’re all gentlemen…and one fine lady.” Sam bowed to the well-dressed woman Craig had met last night.

  Ms. Hardesty was sipping a flute of what looked like champagne. Most likely it would be her only glass. Few serious players imbibed in alcohol during games because it dulled their faculties. And considering the quarter-million-dollar buy-in, this game was for serious players only. Nevertheless, a tuxedoed professional stood at the bar. When Sam walked over to greet another new arrival, Craig perused the snack table: caviar on toast points, grilled shrimp and asparagus skewers, a veal pâté served with crackers, and warm prime rib sliders. Although rich people probably didn’t call tiny sandwiches “sliders.”

  Craig asked for a Coke at the bar and stood back to assess the other players. He immediately locked gazes with Johnny Herman. That old man is watching me. Craig frowned and occupied himself with the appetizers, trying not to attract attention.

  “If everyone will take their seats, please,” announced Big Sam. “We’re ready to resume play. Feel free to sit out a few hands whenever the spirit moves you. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  Craig took a position three seats away from Johnny Herman and next to Ms. Hardesty. The woman was wearing a wedding band on her right hand. What did that mean—widow? Married, but temporarily estranged? He forced his concentration back to his task at hand. Because that’s what this was—a job for the evening that would restore the life he’d come to love. Nate and Isabelle might not believe this—and he couldn’t blame them—but he would never gamble again after tonight. No matter what the outcome. He felt neither the anticipation of nonstop, heart-pounding action nor the exhilaration over the prospect of vast riches.

  Craig felt nothing but cold, unmitigated fear that failure would seal his fate with Cassie forever. He could not fail. As he settled into the high-backed upholstered chair, Craig uttered a simple prayer for deliverance from his past and grace for the future.

  For several hours he played poker to the best of his abilities. Often he won, sometimes he lost, but the pile of chips in front of him continued to grow. The special decks—those marked with a certain ink visible only to him—failed to appear. His luck wouldn’t last forever. He’d played poker long enough to know that, but what could he do? He hadn’t won enough to pay Pierce everything he owed him.

  Surprisingly, the tiresome retired gambler, who had been so critical of him this morning, seemed to throw down his cards at inappropriate times. Maybe he was wrong, but Craig possessed a sixth sense for these things—Johnny Herman had folded several winning hands.

  Finally, the first egg from the golden goose appeared in the dealer’s shoe. As each card was dealt facedown around the table, Craig could easily see who had been given a queen or an eight or the ace of hearts. Like magic he knew exactly what each player had, along with the face-up cards on the table. And he knew exactly how to bet.

  With this incredible advantage, all Craig needed was four or five more hands. Then he would have all the money he owed Pierce. He knew what he’d promised Nate and Art Lewis, but a few extra winning hands could rid him of a nasty loan shark forever.

  This wasn’t addiction. This was a chance of a lifetime. Yet somehow that tiresome old man sensed Craig’s golden opportunity had arrived.

  “Know what, Tennessee?” Mr. Herman slurred as though drunk, yet Craig had seen him drink only black coffee.

  “My name is Mr. Mitchell, sir,” said Craig, mildly unnerved.

  “Yeah, whoever you are,” continued Herman. “I’m tired of those dark glasses. Like you’re some kind of Hollywood celebrity. If it’s just the same to you, I like to see the eyes of everybody I’m losing money to.”

  Craig cleared his throat. “It’s not just the same to me. These are prescription glasses that I’m required to wear.”

  Herman scooted his chair back from the table. “That’s baloney, boy. I’ve seen you play on the casino floor all week with no dark glasses. You saw the cards just fine.” His smile was almost a sneer. “I want those shades gone so I know who I’m playing with.” The tiresome old man turned his focus on Big Sam, as did Craig and every other player at the table. As their organizer, it was his decision.

  Craig held his breath. He needed to win a few more hands. Yes, he wasn’t supposed to cheat, but only he knew exactly when the marked cards appeared.

  Big Sam sipped his drink while considering the conundrum. One by one he assessed his invited guests and then folded his arms over his chest. “I played with Mr. Herman years ago when I was starting out.” Sam nodded at the old man. “I know you’re an honest player.” Then he refocused on Craig. “But I never laid eyes on you, Mr. Mitchell, before yesterday. So if Mr. Herman wants no sunglasses at the table, then I say no sunglasses at the table.” Sam thumped his fist on the felt, an unnecessary punctuation to his command.

  Craig knew the host’s decision was final. If he argued, he would be asked to leave. So he removed the glasses and tucked them inside his sport coat. “Of course, sir. My apologies for the disruption.”

  Tension at the table immediately abated. Two players called drink orders to the bartender, giving Craig a few moments to consider his options before the next hand. He could continue to play. After all, he’d been winning before the marked cards surfaced
. Glancing at his chips, he estimated he was within a few thousand of his target.

  Or he could cash out and leave somewhere he no longer belonged. He and Cassie would figure out how to make up the difference and rid Mickey Pierce from their lives forever. That would be the right thing to do.

  “How about a drink, Mr. Mitchell?” Sam Malloy slapped him on the back. “No hard feelings?”

  With a queasy stomach and rubbery legs, Craig rose to his feet. “None whatsoever, sir, but I feel the vibes have turned against me. Cash me out, please.” He pushed his chips toward the dealer. A minute later he stuffed the bills into his pocket and strode toward the door.

  “Vibes…what a bunch of hooey,” muttered Mr. Herman. “Come back when you wear big-boy pants.”

  Craig didn’t care about the retired gambler’s opinion of him. He cared what Cassie thought and what he thought of himself. Tomorrow he would find a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. But tonight he needed to find a church—any church—and lower his head in prayer. God had delivered him from himself.

  Riding the elevator down from the high roller room, Craig’s eyes filled with tears. By the time the doors opened onto the lively casino floor, he was sobbing like a baby. Johnny Herman pegged me correctly. He started walking, away from the bright lights of the casino, and kept on walking for miles. Several hours later, he was shaken awake by a burly maintenance man.

  “I need to lock up in here, sir. Is there someone I can call for you?”

  Craig gaped at his surroundings. “Where am I?”

  “Main Street United Methodist Church. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I came in to pray and must have dozed off.” Craig staggered stiffly down the aisle.

  “Having a tough week?” the man asked when they reached the door.

  “You could say that, but things are looking up.” Craig stepped into a night that had grown much cooler.

  “God bless you, friend.” He waved and locked the door behind him.

  Craig peered left and right, confused. For several disoriented moments, he couldn’t remember where he had left his car. Then a familiar voice called out from the street.