In Moonlight and Memories:
Volume One
by
Julie Ann Walker
From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julie Ann Walker comes an epic story about sacrifice, friendship, and the awe-inspiring power of love.
In Moonlight and Memories: Volume One
Copyright © 2019 by Limerence Publications LLC
Excerpt from In Moonlight and Memories: Volume Two © 2019 by Limerence Publications LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Limerence Publications LLC
ISBN: 978-1-950100-00-2
Table of Contents
IN MOONLIGHT AND MEMORIES: VOLUME 1
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
Sneak Peek—IN MOONLIGHT AND MEMORIES: VOLUME 2
More Books by Julie Ann Walker
About Julie Ann Walker
Dedication
To my mother, who calls me “Sis” and always had time to get down on the floor and play. And to my father, who calls me “Bud” and taught me how to fish while explaining (in great scientific detail) why the sky is blue.
“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” ~ Lao Tzu
Prologue
______________________________________
Cash
This is the story of my death…
Or maybe it’s the story of my life. Hard to tell the difference since we’re all barreling toward an inevitable end. From the moment of conception, our cells continue to split until eventually the little building blocks of life no longer perform their function.
To live is to die.
Who said that? Some great philosopher? Some melancholy poet?
Nah. Pretty sure it was Metallica.
Funny. You never think of metalheads as succinct. Then again, when you’re headbanging and screaming at the top of your lungs, it behooves you to get to the damned point.
Take it from me. I know what it’s like to have the ol’ gray matter scrambled.
But I digress…
This is my story.
Although, on second thought, maybe it’s our story. A story of love. My love, her love, and his love. Her being Magnolia May Carter, the sweetest girl in all of Orleans Parish. Him being Lucien “Luc” Dubois, my best friend, my brother by something stronger than blood. My brother by choice.
Want to warn you right now, it’s a tragic tale. Not all of it, of course. There are moments of incandescent joy. Still, it’s tragic. Or maybe that’s only from my perspective. Since it’s also triumphant from my perspective, well…
Guess you’ll have to make up your own mind what it is. If you have the courage to keep reading.
Chapter One
______________________________________
Maggie
They say home is where the heart is.
What a load of hogwash.
My heart was stolen by a boy who ran off to join the army and left me waiting on the front steps of my aunt’s house in a red sequined prom dress. No one’s seen or heard from him since. And considering he didn’t give my heart back to me before scooting a boot that fateful night, it’s safe to say my home is definitely not where my heart is.
My home is the Big Easy. New Orleans.
I’m out on my balcony watering the two oversize ferns that come part and parcel with a place in the Vieux Carré. It’s one of those long, lazy evenings where the day stubbornly clings to the last vestiges of light. Out on the Mississippi, a tugboat pulling a barge blasts its mournful horn. And across the way, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe are on their terrace—a couple of slow-talking retirees who love to sit in their slow-rocking chairs at the end of each day and gossip about the goings-on in the French Quarter.
Soft, somber blues drifts down the street. The buskers on Royal are warming up for the night. Their music makes me nostalgic for a time I’m not sure I ever even knew, long for something I’m not sure I ever even had.
But that’s New Orleans for you.
In turns gritty and gracious, this city has a way of casting a spell. It enchants. And not only the tourists who come to get wasted on Hurricanes and Sazeracs while tossing beads at each other’s heads. The full-time residents are bewitched too.
We strive every day for joie de vivre. The joy of living.
Maybe it’s because we’re below sea level and are one bad storm away from the levees collapsing again and covering us all in the muck and the mire, breaking our backs, ruining our livelihoods, and washing away our loved ones. Maybe that famous Voodoo queen Marie Laveau used her magic to enthrall us for all eternity. Or maybe we just have something special here, a mix of people and culture unlike anyplace else.
Whatever the reason, there’s no denying we New Orleanians are a particular breed and—
“Cher, you comin’ to see me play over in da Marigny tonight?”
That’s my upstairs neighbor, Jean-Pierre Marchand. He saws a fiddle like nobody’s business, is gorgeous in that muddy-water way of a true Cajun, and doesn’t know how to knock.
If not for him walking my dog on the days I pull a double, I’d rue the morning I handed him a key.
Okay, not really. Jean-Pierre is… Well, he’s simply the best.
Taking in his getup as he ducks through one of the two large windows leading from my living room to my balcony, I see he’s carrying his fiddle case and is wearing his signature fedora cocked rakishly over one eye. A white T-shirt under a maroon vest makes him look carelessly artsy, and his black wingtips are scuffed to exude a perfectly lived-in look.
In a word: yummy. In two words: h-h-holy hotness.
If it weren’t for that whole gay thing, I’d marry him tomorrow.
Then again…maybe not. There’s that pesky issue of my heart and its permanent status in the hands of the boy…er…man who’s MIA and persona non grata.
Sigh.
I should be over him. I know I should.
I keep telling myself to move on. How can I still want someone who so obviously doesn’t want me?
Then again, it’s not like I haven’t tried, dang it! I’ve dated. In fact, my aunt—the locally renowned Mrs. Beatrix Chatelain—would say I’ve dated too much.
It’s not seemly for a proper young lady to go around town with so many
different gentleman callers, she says every time someone new enters my life. Never mind that I don’t consider seven to be so many. Especially considering that’s seven men spread over ten years.
Yes. You read that correctly. Ten years. I’m twenty-six, and I’m still hung up on the boy I met when I was fourteen. The boy who left me when I was sixteen.
A while back, I read a quote that pretty much sums up my situation. True love is not the number of kisses, or how often you get them. True love is the feeling that lingers long after the kiss is over.
My feelings linger. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
“I’m working the evening shift,” I tell Jean-Pierre, setting my watering pot aside and wagging a finger at Yard when he stops at the window to gaze up at me hopefully.
Ever since my pound pup nearly hung himself by getting his head stuck between the balcony’s wrought-iron balusters, he’s not allowed out here unless invited. His ears droop dejectedly before he flops onto the hardwood floor, his back turned to me in canine pique.
“Isn’t dis your night off?” Jean-Pierre frowns.
“Chrissy’s sick, so I’m covering for her.” I drop onto the chaise I’ve pushed into the corner with a heavy sigh. “That place keeps me busier than a moth in a mitten. It might be the death of me yet. Just you wait and see.”
“Please,” he scoffs as he leans his elbows against the balcony’s top rail. The sky above him is a Monet painting in soft pastels. “Don’t act like ya don’t love dat bar like I love my mawmaw’s red beans and rice. You probably wanted Chrissy to take da night off so you’d have an excuse to go in.”
I cross my arms defensively. “She was sniffling yesterday during the afternoon shift, and who wants to buy drinks from a bartender with a cold?”
He shakes his head. “When’s da last time you took a day for yourself?”
“Tuesday.”
“A whole day.”
Busted. “I don’t know. Was it sometime last month?”
“You askin’ me?” One dark eyebrow wings up his forehead and I battle the urge to shove it down with my thumb. Then whoopsie! My thumb might slip into his eye.
“Don’t give me that look.” I point to his face.
“What look?”
“That you-aren’t-takin’-care-of-yourself look. I don’t need a mother hen clucking over my shoulder. I need…”
I trail off. Honestly, I don’t know what I need. I’ve been restless lately. Change is in the air, but I can’t tell if it’s good change or bad change, and that makes me nervous. When I’m nervous, I work.
There are worse traits, right? I mean, what if when I got nervous I drank, or holed up in my house with the blinds drawn, or took to tearing my hair out in chunks? My point being, working too much is downright American.
“A man,” Jean-Pierre says with a decisive sniff.
“Huh? What man?”
“Any man.”
I blink at him owlishly. “What are you talking about?”
“You.”
“Huh?” I ask again, proving I should write sonnets.
Jean-Pierre takes pity on me. “What you need is a man, mais yeah? Someone to take you out dancin’. Someone to tug at your heartstrings. Someone to make you forget.”
Forget. If only.
“You volunteering for the job?” I ask with a cocked eyebrow.
He makes a face of regret. “Me, I’d be da first in line if da good Lord saw fit to make me dat way.”
All my affection for him is in my smile. “I know. And I love you too. But I need a man about as much as I need a back pocket on this shirt. My relationships never work out, and I don’t want Aunt Bea frowning down her nose at me when another one crashes and burns. Besides, I don’t have time for romance. Halloween’s coming up. Then there’s Thanksgiving and Christmas. Before you know it, it’ll be Carnival season, and I’ll be run so ragged it’ll take most of spring for me to recover.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but something below snags his attention. Turning, he hangs over the balcony and lets loose with a soft wolf whistle. Jean-Pierre has impeccable taste in men, so even though I’ve just said I don’t need one in my life, I can’t deny my curiosity. I get up to see who’s caught his eye.
No sooner do I peek over the railing than I jerk back and plaster myself against the brick wall between my apartment’s two front windows. Blood roars in my ears. My stomach takes a nose dive.
“Soc au’ lait!” Jean-Pierre exclaims, pressing a hand over his heart.
It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, I’d recognize Luc Dubois’s lady-killer dimples and Superman hair anywhere. The same can be said for Cash Armstrong’s broad shoulders and loose-hipped swagger.
“Cher? Who are dey?” Jean-Pierre’s voice is laced with concern.
I know I’m as white as a sheet. I felt the blood drain from my face. And if I continue to suck in huge gulps of air, I’ll hyperventilate. The world is already buzzing, my vision going bright and crackling around the edges.
Bending at the waist, I plant my hands on my knees and force myself to breathe normally.
“What in da world?” Jean-Pierre comes over to solicitously rub my back.
Once I’m sure I’m not about to keel over, I stand. “The dark-haired one saved me,” I manage, although my throat feels like someone shoved a wad of cotton in there. “The blond one stole my heart.”
Jean-Pierre’s eyebrows reach for the sky. He knows what happened way back when. One night after a blind date from hell and one too many glasses of wine, I came home and spilled the whole sorry tale. Or…at least the relevant bits about my teenage pathos, melodrama, and love life. The other stuff? The stuff that came after Cash left and Luc was forced to escort me to prom? I’ve never breathed a word about that to anyone except to repeat the story Luc and I agreed on.
Although, the not talking about it hasn’t made the memory fade. It’s as sharp as ever. A razor-toothed monster that lurks in my nightmares.
Turning back to the railing, Jean-Pierre watches the ghosts of my past make their way up my street. I realize I’ve grabbed the heart-shaped locket that hangs around my neck. When I glance down, I see the infinity symbol tattooed on the inside of my wrist. Both are souvenirs from a time long gone. A time I thought I’d never get the chance to revisit.
That change in the air? Pretty sure it just blew my way like a High Plains twister.
“So,” Jean-Pierre murmurs, “after all dis time, your boys are back in town.”
Chapter Two
______________________________________
Cash
The sweetest journey is the one that takes you home.
Read that somewhere once, and it comes back to me now as I make my way through the French Quarter.
New Orleans…
A place with a slight otherworldliness to it. A city built atop the primordial ooze, where time measures itself in generations, not minutes. Stand still and you can feel the thunk of all that history in every beat of your heart.
She might not be the city of my birth—that distinction belongs to Newark, New Jersey—but she’s where I plan to spend the rest of my life. Because it was here I first experienced true friendship. And it was here I fell in love.
The year was 2007. When Fergie tried to convince us that “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and Daniel Radcliffe reprised his role of Harry Potter for the fifth film in the franchise. More important, it was the year I met Lucien Dubois and Magnolia May Carter.
Magnolia…
Her name is the state flower of Louisiana.
Don’t ask me how I know that. Probably read it in the guidebook I picked up before my father moved me here when I was sixteen years old.
Magnolia…
My heart sighs.
“Who d’ya think the guy is?” Luc asks as we make our way past the Napoleon House on the corner of St. Louis and Chartres streets—or Rue St. Louis and Rue Chartres as the signposts say. “Mom hasn’t mentioned her posting anything on F
acebook about a boyfriend. Just stuff about the bar.”
“Do people still use Facebook?” I ask, welcoming the long, whirring sound of cicadas. Even here in the middle of the French Quarter, they call to one another from the trees. “Isn’t it all Instagram and Snapchat nowadays?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Good point. Luc and I avoid social media like the dumpster fire it is. Which is standard operating procedure for guys in our line of business. Er…rather, our previous line of business.
We’re civilians now. No more orders. No more missions. No more MREs or NVGs.
The idea takes some getting used to.
“Don’t know who the guy is. Don’t care,” I say, eyeing the dude in the fedora who’s hanging over Maggie’s balcony railing. “He doesn’t stand a chance now that we’re back.”
Luc snorts. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an arrogant sonofabitch?”
“You tell me all the time. I keep telling you, you’re confusing arrogance with confidence.”
“What’s the difference again?”
“Arrogance requires advertising,” I say with a toothy grin, then hook a thumb toward my chest. “Confidence speaks for itself.”
He battles a smile, then turns serious. “It’s been ten years. She might not even remember our names.”
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