Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  New Orleans…a city full of sound.

  “Come in, come in.” Maggie takes Cash’s hand. She takes mine too, and an electric current shoots up my arm, zapping my pulse into high gear as she pulls us into her apartment.

  We’re greeted by a three-legged dog who appears to be part pit bull, part beagle, and a whole lot of mutt. He’s as ugly as the back end of bad luck, which, inexplicably, makes him kind of cute.

  Yipping and barking, he spins in circles. I can see right away he’s less the guard-dog type and more the never-met-a-stranger type. If a burglar broke into Maggie’s place, this guy would undoubtedly lick the would-be thief’s hand and promptly show him to the treat drawer.

  “Quiet, Yard,” Maggie scolds, reaching to scratch the dog’s ears until he’s smiling one of those ridiculous canine smiles, long pink tongue lolling, big brown eyes adoring.

  “Yard?” Cash asks, and I can tell by the huskiness of his voice that he’s still reeling from that hug.

  Can’t say that I blame him. I’m reeling too. But thanks to practice, I’m better at keeping it to myself.

  “She named him Yard on account of his three feet.” I motion with my chin toward the dog.

  Maggie touches her nose then points at me.

  We were always copacetic. I used to think I knew what was in her head before she did.

  Cash lets loose with a big belly laugh. The kind I haven’t heard since before the bombing.

  Taking a covert peek at the scar above his temple, I curse our commander for scheduling a meeting with me that day. I can’t rightly say whether my being beside Cash would’ve made a difference. I don’t know if I could’ve stopped him from getting hurt. But I do know that we’re always better together. A team of two. The dynamic duo.

  “Come sit down.” Maggie leads us through her kitchen and bedroom.

  I try not to stare at the queen-size bed. If I do, I’ll imagine her there, and since she’s likely to become my best friend’s girl again, that’s about fifty shades of shitty.

  Her apartment is three large rooms. The door from the gallery opens to her kitchen/dining room. That leads directly to her bedroom, and her bedroom leads directly to her living room. The three spaces are separated by massive doors that reach to the towering ceilings of the old building. They fold back accordion-style so she’s able to open up the entire place or close it off one section at a time. Right now, the doors are open.

  Taking a seat on one of the two sofas she’s arranged in an L, I’m struck by how much Maggie is in the place. Like her, it’s warm and comfortable. The walls are painted a muted yellow, and the dark, wide-planked wood floors are glossed to a high shine. Colorful artwork (no doubt from local artists) covers the walls, and a dozen turquoise candles of every shape and size burn lazily in the fireplace. Along with the light from a few lamps, they cast the room in a cheery glow.

  I laugh when a tabby cat with big golden eyes rides by on a Roomba.

  “That’s Leonard.” Maggie’s perched on the edge of a wingback chair covered in seafoam velvet. “He’s a character.”

  She’s doing a bang-up job of hiding how much our arrival has affected her. But when she fiddles with the chain around her neck, I know she’s not as calm and collected as she’s pretending to be. (I told Cash we should call first. Give her a heads-up and time to prepare.) Then she pulls the heart-shaped locket from beneath the collar of her black T-shirt and my thoughts screech to a halt.

  She kept it.

  My throat is as dry as a desert wind, but damned if my eyes aren’t the opposite. Does this mean she’s forgiven me for going after Cash and leaving her all alone? Or does my desertion pale so much in comparison to his that she doesn’t think there’s anything to forgive?

  I glance out the window at the elderly couple sitting on the terrace across the way. Even in the twilight, I can see they’re content. More than content. Happy.

  I envy them and wonder if that’ll ever be me.

  “Well,” Maggie says as Yard does two quick circles before curling up on the rug beside her feet, “where do we start?”

  I look to Cash. He’s sitting on the other end of the sofa. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I mean, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of either of you in ten years, and now here you are. So where do we start? With you telling me what you’ve been up to since joining the army? With you explaining why you changed your phone number and why you never saw fit to answer any of the dozens of emails I sent you?”

  “I answered your email,” I’m quick to interject.

  She frowns at me. “Writing once to tell me it was better for us to leave the past in the past and get on with life wasn’t much of an answer.”

  Since I have no argument for that, I stare down at my work boots. I could tell her that a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t thought of her, when I haven’t picked up the phone to call her or opened my email to send her a message. But what would be the point?

  I did what I did because I thought it was right. Because I thought it would help keep her safe and let her move on. It’s taken seeing her again to realize I might’ve been wrong.

  “I changed my number and my email address,” Cash says matter-of-factly, “so Rick couldn’t get in touch with me. You know I couldn’t wait to get out from under his thumb. When I saw my chance, I took it.”

  “And your chance just happened to be on prom night?” Incredulity wallpapers her face.

  When someone meets Maggie for the first time, they might mistake her soft smile for shyness. But once you get to know her, you realize she’s got a backbone of steel. The girl…uh…woman—she’s a woman now, I remind myself—doesn’t know the meaning of the phrase pull your punches.

  “Well…” Cash lifts his hands and lets them fall. “Yeah.”

  Her eyes narrow. He’s not giving her the whole story, and she knows it. “And after everything, you couldn’t have…oh, I don’t know…come and told me you were leaving? Instead, you left me sitting on Aunt Bea’s front porch holding a Dear Jane letter that said exactly seven words. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I have to go.’”

  “How is Miss Bea?” he asks.

  I’d never call him a coward, but he does have a rare gift when it comes to evasion.

  “As poised and perfectly coiffed as ever,” Maggie says without missing a beat and then quickly adds, “How did you know where I live?”

  Cash looks over at me. The flick of his fingers says without words, This is where you come in.

  “Mom told me where we could find you,” I confess, feeling a niggle of discomfort admitting that I was instrumental in the planning of this ambush. “You’re friends with her on Facebook.”

  To my great relief, Maggie’s expression doesn’t harden. Just the opposite. Her eyes soften at the corners. “She’s doing well up in Shreveport?” she asks.

  Thinking of how well my mother is doing makes me smile. “After I joined the army, she put herself through beauty school and opened her own salon. She says she enjoys it. But I think she likes the gossip and the girl time more than doing hair.”

  “I’ve seen some of her posts about you. She’s so proud.” Maggie’s brow beetles. “But I always thought it was weird that she never posted where you were stationed or what you were up to. She hasn’t put up a picture of you in forever.”

  “That’s because Luc and I have been Green Berets for the last eight years, and the spec-ops community frowns on putting photos of ourselves online for all the world to see,” Cash explains. “It’s safer for us if friends and family keep things on the DL. Foreign governments…agents…you understand.”

  “I do?” Maggie blinks. “What’s spec-ops?”

  “Special operations,” Cash explains.

  “Shut the front door.” She looks to me for confirmation, and all I can do is shrug. “Okay… Well, that’s just…” She shakes her head. “Wow. I always knew you two were meant for great things. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the US government felt the same.”

>   “The movies make it seem more exciting than it really is,” I tell her. Adulation of any kind, but especially the adulation of women who hear what we do and then look at us like we’re a couple of heroes, makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

  Cash sends me a look. It says I’m full of horseshit. What we did was way more exciting (also far, far more dangerous) than the silver screen will ever accurately portray. Still… Maggie doesn’t need to know that.

  Quiet professionals. That’s what the Green Berets are known as. Emphasis on the quiet.

  “And now?” she asks. “What are y’all doing back here?”

  “We’re out,” Cash declares. “Civilians. Me because I took a blast to the head that made a slurry of my brains.” He points to the scar above his temple. “Luc because his contract expired, and I convinced him not to re-up. ‘Time to call it quits and go back home,’ I told him. So here we are.” He spreads his arms wide.

  Her eyes skim over to the angry-looking half-moon wound, and alarm blooms over her face. “What do you mean you took a blast to the head that made a slurry of your brains?”

  “Maybe slurry is a bit of an exaggeration. More like my noggin was given a vigorous jostle. Just enough to get me a disability discharge.”

  She grabs her locket again, and my heart kicks over. “Are you…” She stops to swallow. “Are you okay?”

  He laughs. “Was I ever okay? I mean, really?”

  “Cash, come on.” The impatience in her tone is so familiar I almost smile. This is how it always was. Her trying to be serious. Cash cutting up.

  “I’m fine.” He bats away her worry. His head injury is a subject he tries to avoid like last week’s shrimp.

  Feeling sorry for him, I’m quick to change the subject. “Cash used part of his savings and bought a house over on Orleans Avenue. He’s gonna fix it up.”

  The pulse in her neck double-times it when she glances from him to me and back again. “That means y’all are here to stay, then?”

  “Yep.” Now Cash’s expression is serious. His eyes never flinch from her face.

  I’m watching her closely too, trying to decide if the news makes her happy or wary. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the latter given the way we left things.

  “And what about you, Luc?” she asks. “Did you buy a place too?”

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “I’m living out at the swamp house. Mom’s been good about keeping it fitted up all these years.”

  “Bayou water running through his veins.” Cash hooks a thumb my way. “Can’t tell you how many times we’d be up in those dusty Afghan mountains and he’d start going on about Spanish moss, marsh grass, and muskrats.” He makes a face. “If you ask me, the swamp is nothing but a place for things that sting and bite. But he sees magic in it.” He leans across the sofa and punches my shoulder. “Recite that poem you wrote last month.”

  The last thing I want to do is to recite a silly poem. I want Maggie to see the man I’ve become. See that I’m so much more than the soft-spoken, pimple-skinned, head-in-the-clouds boy I used to be.

  “Now’s not the time,” I grit through my teeth.

  Cash frowns. “Why are you always hiding your light under a bushel, huh?”

  Before I can answer, a black-and-white cat slinks from beneath the sofa near my feet. It sniffs my boots, then rubs itself against my calf. Its deep, satisfied purr is loud enough to shake the windows in their frames.

  Maggie’s eyes widen. “Well, would you look at that.”

  “What?” I reach down to pet the cat. Years ago, one of our Afghan guides had a big tomcat who took a particular shine to me. I remember thinking there was something soothing about soft fur and a rumbling purr.

  “That’s Sheldon,” she says. “Usually, he doesn’t like anyone.”

  “Sheldon?” I scan the place for the other cat, the tabby, and I find him quietly riding the Roomba around the kitchen. “And that one over there is Leonard?” Giving her the side-eye, I venture, “You’re in my spot.”

  She immediately comes back with, “I’m not crazy. My mother had me tested!”

  Like I said, copacetic. We laugh, and just that easily the years separating us are ripped away.

  “What am I missing?” Cash asks.

  “The Big Bang Theory.” The smile Maggie turns on me makes my heart skip a beat.

  Here’s the thing about her. She has a small mole under the arch of her left eyebrow and a little gap between her two front teeth. Both things make her perfect face all that much more interesting. And when she smiles? Oh, when she smiles, the whole world is a better place.

  Cash shakes his head. “Never could understand why everyone likes it so much.”

  “I tried to get him to watch it with me,” I tell her. “He can’t stand the live studio audience. Says all those people laughing is a distraction.”

  She shrugs. “To each his own, I guess.”

  Cash glances back and forth between us, and something flashes in his eyes. Something I don’t recognize. Then he looks around as if expecting more creatures to pop out of the woodwork. “So, how many animals you got in your menagerie, Maggie?”

  “You’ve met them all.” She sighs. “In a place this small, three is all I can manage. Although I still volunteer at the animal shelter one day a week, so…” She shrugs and grins. “It’s probably only a matter of time before I find a way to fit more in.”

  “Still a bleeding heart when it comes to our furry friends.” He turns to me. “You remember the time she found that squirrel with the broken leg in Jackson Square? She cried those big crocodile tears and begged you to help it. How many months did you spend nursing that silly thing back to health?”

  “Two,” I recall.

  He chuckles. “She’s a bleeding heart for animals, and you’re a bleeding heart for her.”

  The tips of my ears heat. “What’re friends for if not to construct tiny leg splints outta Popsicle sticks, am I right?” I wink at Maggie.

  She considers me for a moment, as if to gauge my words, as if to reconcile all the changes in my appearance with the boy she once knew. Finally, she says, “You were always the best of us, Luc.”

  “Still is,” Cash declares. Then he adds, apropos of nothing, “So who’s the guy in the hat?” and I stifle a groan.

  “Jean-Pierre, my upstairs neighbor,” Maggie tells him.

  “Not your boyfriend?” Cash lifts an eyebrow.

  “No.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Oh, for the love of living. I know his mission is to finagle his way back into her life, but there’s something to be said for subtlety. Alas, he’s never developed the skill of beating around the bush. Quite the opposite. He likes to yank the bushes out of the ground, shake them like a maniac, and see what falls out.

  Like I knew they would, Maggie’s hackles go up. She sticks her tongue in her cheek. “I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business, Cash Armstrong.” Looking down at her watch, she adds, “Oh, son of a biscuit! Speaking of business, I’m late!”

  She stands, and Yard lifts his head to look at her reverently. “I hate to be rude and shoo y’all out before offering refreshments. And I’d like nothing better than to spend the next…” She makes a face. “How long do you think it’ll take us to catch up? Three hours? Three years?” She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. Right now, I have to get to the bar.”

  “Mom told me you bought that old place on the corner of Chartres and Conti.” I stand as well. Sheldon does figure eights around my legs. “I can’t believe you actually did it, Maggie May. You made our dream come true.”

  For a moment, silence reigns inside her apartment.

  “We always said we would,” she manages as a lone tear slips from the corner of her eye and rolls down her cheek. My heart drops with it to the rug. But then she’s racing around the coffee table and gathering me and Cash close. Squeezing us, she says wetly, “I’m so mad at y’all for leaving me and never calling or emailing or Skyping or ev
en writing a danged letter. But in the same breath, I’m so happy to see you again. Welcome home, boys.”

  Closing my eyes, I bend my head and breathe in the smell of her hair. It reminds me of a dance under the silver moon with accordion music hanging in the air and a zydeco band singing songs about the bayou.

  Chapter Four

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Live in the moment.

  That’s always been my motto since I’ve learned when I’m not living in the moment, I’m either worrying about an unknown future, or looking back at all the what-ifs and could-have-beens.

  Truth is, though, lately it’s been hard to abide by that particular credo. And coming back here? Makes it damn near impossible.

  Draining the last of the whiskey from my flask, I rummage through the cupboards for more. The door on the dilapidated cabinet comes off in my hand. I toss it atop the heap of debris in the corner of the kitchen.

  Bought this house as part of The Plan. But as I glance around at the crumbling plasterwork, peeling paint, and sagging ceiling beams, I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake. It’s a shithole, to put it mildly. Not sure Luc and I will be able to get it in shipshape before—

  “Aha!” I exclaim, pulling the half-empty bottle of Gentleman Jack from the shelf. I’m happy to say the only things I inherited from my douchebag of a father are my green eyes and a love of Tennessee whiskey.

  Tossing back a long swig, I welcome the bite of the liquor. Good ol’ Jack will succor the pain in my head—the damn thing feels like it’s packed with C-4, ready to explode any second—and also the sadness and anger and uncertainty that have coagulated into a hard ball of misery inside my chest.

  After refilling my flask, I set the near-empty bottle of Jack on the shelf and turn to see Luc standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

  “You could start a business with that look of disapproval,” I tell him. “You’re An Idiot, LLC.”