Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Reckon you ought to go back and see the doctors?” Here he goes again. “There’s gotta be something more they can do for you.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head, and the room tilts. The whiskey is already working her magic. “They tell me they’ve done all they can for now. It’s just wait and see.”

  Stumbling to the living room and over to the queen-size mattress I had delivered this afternoon, I flop down and throw an arm over my eyes. The light from the single bare bulb hanging from a dangling socket isn’t overly bright, but it still hurts like the devil’s own hell to look at it.

  Luc’s size twelves clomp across wood floors that will have to be stripped, sanded, restained and resealed. Right now, the list of things I need to do to whip this place into shape is overwhelming.

  Buyer’s remorse.

  “Fine,” he says, stopping beside the mattress. “Handle it however you see fit. You always do.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant Dubois. Think I will.” I take my arm away from my eyes so I can snap him a sarcastic salute.

  The fact that he outranks me is something I needle him about whenever I can. Although, he should outrank me. While I’m a good soldier—never met a mission or a machine gun I didn’t like—I’ve never had Luc’s way with people. Never had his quiet confidence when it comes to leadership or his ability to see the big picture without letting his emotions cloud the issue.

  He nudges the edge of the mattress with the toe of his boot.

  “Keep your clodhoppers away from my bed,” I complain. “It’s brand-new.”

  “Come on now. Get up. Maggie May is itching to show us her bar, and you said you’d stop by.”

  Looking up at him has my mind traveling back to my first day at Braxton Academy. After school, I followed the dark-headed kid I met in the cafeteria to the diner on the corner across the street. When I opened the door, I saw him sitting with a girl.

  I remember being surprised. I didn’t peg him as the kind of guy to date girls. More like the kind of guy to get his ass repeatedly kicked. Nevertheless, there was one thing I was certain of, and that was he needed a friend. Since I needed one too, I didn’t waste any time making my way over to his booth.

  The moment the girl sitting with him met my eyes, the World. Stopped. Spinning. Bastard that I was, I didn’t care that the cafeteria kid looked at her with a soft, gentle sort of longing. All I cared about was making her mine.

  Still want to make her mine.

  Difference between then and now is that now I know I’m no good for her. I’m broken. Just like this city after Katrina. And yet…seeing her today made me long for a fix. Reminded me of everything I lost so long ago and everything I don’t dare hope for now.

  “You go,” I tell Luc, trying to hide my misery. “I’m already half drunk, and I don’t want her seeing me this way.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re a prized ass, you know that?”

  “Take me to the county fair, pin a blue ribbon on me, and name me Best in Show,” I gamely agree.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Reckon I better stay with you.”

  “Hell no, you won’t.” I sit up so I can pin him with a level-eyed look. All I want is to go to sleep alone, forget how unprepared I was to see Maggie again, and wake up tomorrow with renewed determination. “You’ll keep your word and go see her bar. Make an excuse for me, will you?”

  “What excuse d’ya have in mind?”

  “Don’t know. You’re smart. Think of something.”

  His mouth flattens. “Sometimes I wonder why we’re still friends.”

  “You know what? Sometimes I wonder that too. Maybe you’re not as smart as I think you are.”

  He laughs as I hoped he would. “Fine. I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning, and we’ll get started mucking out this pigsty.”

  “Not too bright and early,” I tell him “I’m a civilian now, and one of the perks of being a civilian is sleeping in. Don’t let me see your ugly mug before zero nine hundred. Oh, and bring coffee and beignets with you.”

  His lips twist. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

  “No chicory. That stuff tastes like piss.”

  He grabs his chest like I’ve shot him. “Shut your damned mouth. Chicory is God’s gift to mankind.”

  I wave a hand. “Get the hell out of here.”

  He hits the light switch on his way out, plunging the house into blessed darkness. “Get some sleep,” he says. “And lay off the whiskey. It might make your brain feel better, but it can’t be helping it heal. Not to mention what it’s doing to your liver.”

  “Do we need to go over what it means when I tell you to mind your own shit?” I counter.

  He’s silhouetted by the outside lights, so I see him shake his head. Then he closes the door behind him without saying another word.

  Curling onto my side on the mattress, I listen to the rhythmic chirp of crickets in the back courtyard and the soft sound of music drifting over from Bourbon Street. The house is musty with the scent of rotting drywall and dust, but I can still smell the holy trinity of Cajun cooking: onions, bell peppers, and celery. My neighbors are making gumbo.

  It’s been a long time since I cried. Years, in fact. But tonight I can’t stop the tears from falling.

  Chapter Five

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  I read somewhere there’s no chemical solution to an emotional or spiritual problem. But I have to tell you, double shots of bourbon were made for nights like this.

  Tossing back the first one, I hiss at the burn, then toss back the second one. Charlie, my barback, stops wiping out a beer mug to gape at me.

  “Something you want to talk about?” he asks since I’m not one to imbibe on the job.

  “Ghosts from my past coming back to haunt me is all.” I wave a hand through the air. When I see it’s shaking, I curl it into a fist, hoping the bourbon will take care of that problem if I give it a few minutes.

  Luc Dubois and Cash Armstrong are home. And they’re here to stay.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.

  I wasn’t kidding when I told them I was mad at them—well, mad at Cash, really. Luc gets a pass because of that awful, horrible, wretched night. But Cash is definitely still on the hook. I mean, just waltzing down my street as if no time has passed? Then acting like he doesn’t have anything to explain?

  Who does that?

  And if he supposes that whole when I saw my chance, I took it is going to fly, he’s got another think coming. Yeah, he and his dad didn’t exactly get on like a house on fire, but I know evasion when I hear it.

  There’s more to the story. And after everything, he owes it to me to tell it.

  “Put the dogs on, doll,” Earl demands. “I got good money on a race that airs in ten minutes.”

  Dropping the dirty shot glasses into the sink, I walk over and snag the remote from beside the register. I have one television in my place, and that’s only to appease Earl.

  When I opened Bon Temps Rouler four years ago, I meant for it to be a spot where locals and like-minded tourists could hang out. None of the flashy big-screen televisions, cover bands singing the latest Top 40, or slushy drinks you’ll find on Bourbon Street. Just good booze, good music, and good times for folks who aren’t looking for anything more than a nice neighborhood bar.

  For the most part, I’ve succeeded. But I broke down and bought the television when “Royal Earl” Greene decided to make my place his daily watering hole.

  You see, Earl is a local legend. He’s been the concierge at the Omni Royal Orleans since before Christ was born—or at least since the hotel was constructed back in the sixties atop the site of a former slave market. As such, he knows everything about everyone. Not only the natives, but also the celebrities and dignitaries who come to the French Quarter to stay in one of the most prestigious—and most haunted, if you believe the stories Earl tells—establishments in the
city.

  Earl is a living caricature. Walking entertainment. Where Royal Earl goes, the denizens of the Vieux Carré follow. When he asked me to put in a TV so he could watch the dog races, I didn’t dare say no. If nothing else, I pride myself on being a savvy businesswoman.

  Turning on the TV, I mute the volume so it doesn’t interfere with Trombone Shorty coming from the jukebox in the back. Then I pop the top off a bottle of Abita and slide it across the bar. Earl catches it before it can topple over the edge.

  This is our ritual. The tourists love it.

  Although, right now there aren’t many tourists to speak of. Just two twentysomethings—a leggy blonde and her redheaded companion—at a table near the front. My remaining ten or so customers are all folks who live in The Quarter. They’re catching a quick drink after work, and soon they’ll either head home or out to dinner. The place won’t start jumping for a couple of hours. Nine p.m. is when the band arrives and the real fun starts.

  The motto of New Orleans—and the namesake of my bar—is laissez les bon temps rouler. Literally translated, it means let the good times roll. Boy howdy, do we ever.

  “Tell me about these ghosts you’re dealing with,” Earl says, keeping one eye on the television.

  “They’re not the kind you’re used to,” I assure him. “These are the flesh-and-blood sort. The sort that’ll turn your head and make your heart go pitter-patter.”

  That interests him enough to have him sparing me a glance. He rubs the tip of his white handlebar mustache between his fingers. “You don’t say? Well, it’s about time you settled down. You’re in jeopardy of becoming a spinster. If you ain’t one already.”

  “Gee, thanks, Earl.” I make a face at him. “But like I told Jean-Pierre earlier, I’m not in the market for a slice of beefcake.” Although, when I said it to Jean-Pierre, I meant it. Now? Not so much.

  One touch of Cash’s callused hand, one word from his lips, and I’m tempted to forget the way he hurt me, the way he left me. I’m tempted to fall back in love.

  Not that I ever really fell out.

  “See, that’s your problem.” Earl takes a long pull on his beer, leaving me to wait with breathless anticipation for him to finish. Eventually, he does. “You hang around that fiddle player too much. Potential suitors don’t know he’s light in his loafers. They think he’s your man, and it puts them off.”

  “What is with everyone today?” I glance around the bar. “Did everyone miss the memo that modern-day women don’t need a man to be complete? I’m perfectly fine all by my lonesome, thank you very much. Also, in case no one’s told you, the phrase light in his loafers is offensive.”

  “Ah, hell.” Earl huffs. “I don’t mean nothing by it. This is New Orleans.”

  To punctuate his point, he pronounces it New Or-leenz instead of the correct New Or-linz—and just FYI, the quickest way to prove you’re not from around here is to pronounce it N’Awlins. Don’t know who came up with that one, but it wasn’t anyone from the 504.

  “Everybody and everything is welcome here,” Earl adds. “Besides, I’m seventy-six years old. You can’t expect me to keep up with all this PC nonsense.”

  “Is it nonsense to be mindful of the feelings of those who are different than you?”

  “Bah!” His beer hits the bar with a thunk. “You’re trying to change the subject. Now tell me about these ghosts from your past. Ghosts, as in plural?” He wiggles his wiry white eyebrows. “Now that is interesting.”

  “You’re a lecherous old fart.” I shake my head affectionately. “Watch your dog races and mind your own beeswax.”

  “You’re no fun,” he accuses with a frown that makes his mustache droop.

  “So you always say.” I move to the other end of the bar where the two tourists have come to deposit their empties. “Another round, ladies?” I ask.

  “No.” The redhead shakes her head. “We want to get some dinner. Know someplace good that’s close?”

  “Good?” Earl calls. “You’re in Creole country. Everything we make is good, including the men!” He offers the women a salacious wink. “Come sit by me and let me reconnoiter what you’re in the mood for.”

  “They’re young enough to be your granddaughters!” I yell at Earl.

  “Ain’t anybody ever tell you older men make beautiful lovers?” he hollers back.

  “You got that from a country song! And it was about older women!”

  He ignores me and pulls out the barstool next to him as enticement. “Come on, ladies.” He pats the seat. “Give old Earl a chance.”

  When the leggy blonde looks at me, I roll my eyes. “He’s harmless. Truly. And he does know all the best places to eat.”

  Earl blows me a kiss as the duo heads his way. When they grab the barstools on either side of him, he’s in heaven, his dog race long forgotten since he likes nothing better than to spin yarns to enthrall the tourists.

  He orders a round of rye shots for his new friends. After I pour them, movement by the front door catches my eye. My heart, proving itself a total cliché, leaps when I see Luc standing there.

  Lord have mercy, the years have been good to him. He’s pulled a total Neville Longbottom.

  Not that I ever thought he was ugly. He’s always had the thickest, shiniest mink-brown hair and eyes so warm and smooth they remind me of good whiskey. Then there are those dimples…

  But back in high school, he still had a coltishness to him. All six-plus feet of him had been big-boned and lanky. And he suffered from acne. Not a terrible case, mind you. But, you know, there. And he slouched all the time. I used to think it was because he wanted to make himself a smaller target so he could escape the barbs the other kids hurled his way.

  But look at him now…

  No more coltishness. He’s strapped with the kind of muscles that make panties hit the floor. The acne is long gone. Now the only thing covering his square jaw is a light dusting of dark beard stubble. No more slouch either. The army probably rid him of that in two days.

  When he starts my way, every female head in the room turns to watch him go by.

  He takes a seat atop a barstool, and for a couple of minutes, we simply look at each other. Letting our hungry eyes take in all the changes adulthood has wrought. My heart missed Cash, but my Louisiana soul missed Luc. I didn’t realize how much until right this minute.

  Most men would feel the need to fill the silence with words, but not Luc. Maybe it’s his raising out in the swamps with nothing but the gators and the crawdads to keep him company. Or maybe it’s simply him. A pillar of quiet strength and the ability to say it all without ever saying a thing.

  Tears prick behind my eyes as I reach across the bar to grab his hand. I squeeze it tightly. “I’ve missed you something crazy,” I admit.

  “Missed you too, Maggie May.” His throat sounds scratchy, and he tugs on his ear. It’s a familiar gesture.

  I guess some things haven’t changed.

  “Charlie!” I call. “Mind the bar for a bit, will you? This here’s Lucien Dubois. I haven’t seen him in ten years, and we have some catching up to do.”

  “One of your ghosts?” Charlie asks.

  “None other.”

  The redheaded tourist leans around Earl. “If he’s a ghost, then he’s the hottest ghost I’ve ever seen!” Apparently, the shot of rye has already taken effect.

  I lift an eyebrow at Luc.

  He shakes his head and mutters, “Beer goggles.”

  “Please,” I snort. “Women probably curtsy and throw confetti in your wake. Confess. In ten years, you’ve had more casual sex than you can shake a stick at.”

  “Well, since I like doing it in my birthday suit, and since being in your birthday suit is about as casual as a body can get, then yeah. It’s all been pretty casual. What? You prefer formal sex? Like, ball gowns and tuxedos and stuff?”

  A laugh bursts out of me. “Still fooling us into thinking you’re this shy, quiet guy so you can send us spinning when you let your i
nner smart-ass out to play, huh?”

  “It’s one of my best qualities.” He winks.

  And here we are, grinning at each other like fools.

  Earl snags my attention when he lets loose with a loud, “Fwoosh!” He’s telling the ladies about the ghost maid at the hotel who’s been known to tuck guests into bed and flush their toilets in the middle of the night. It’s one of his favorite tales and is always sure to get a squeal of horror at some point. When I look back at Luc, his expression has grown serious.

  “I’m sorry I never called or texted or sent another email after that first one,” he says.

  Squeezing his fingers, I notice the tips are hard and callused. He still plays guitar.

  Well, of course he does. Luc and music go hand in hand.

  “I never understood why Cash ran off,” I tell him, my good humor banking. “And I’m not buying what he’s selling when it comes to the explanation about his dad. But I know why you had to go.” The awful image of Dean Sullivan’s head is burned into my retinas. Even after all these years, when I close my eyes, I see it, and icy fingers of shame slip up my spine, making me shudder. “I’m so sorry. I wish—”

  “Hey.” He grabs my chin. “Stop that. There’s no call for you to apologize.”

  “Isn’t there?” I search his eyes, looking for absolution. But even when I find it, I can’t make myself accept it.

  Sometimes guilt can draw two people together. Most times it pushes them apart. Luc and I were pushed apart. What I did that night changed both of us. Forever.

  It’s my biggest regret.

  “No.” He shakes his head and glances around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. “There was nothing either of us coulda done differently.”

  “We could’ve told the truth,” I counter.

  He makes a rude sound. “George Sullivan never woulda believed us about what really happened.”

  At the mention of the police superintendent’s name, goose bumps erupt up the lengths of my arms. With Luc and Cash halfway around the world, and me doing my best to keep to myself, Sullivan’s been fairly quiet over the last few years. But I can’t help wondering what he’ll do once he finds out Luc and Cash are back in town.