Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  He follows me to the door, and I sit on the stoop while he stashes his guitar inside Smurf. When he joins me on the steps, I have to scoot over to make room for his shoulders. Planting his big booted feet two steps down is the only way his knees aren’t bent to his ears.

  “I think we should go with him to see his doctors,” I say once he’s situated. “I want to hear what they have to say, see if he needs a second opinion. The VA doesn’t have the best reputation, you know.”

  “You don’t gotta tell me.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “But I don’t reckon he’ll welcome us sticking our noses into his business.”

  “Then we’ll just have to insist.” I tug on his ear. It’s a gesture that, once upon a time, was as normal as breathing.

  He tilts his face into my palm, closing his eyes and blowing out a windy breath. His beard stubble is scratchy against my skin.

  Is it weird to be touching him with such familiarity? We may not be strangers, but neither are we those same two lonely kids from high school. I jerk my hand away.

  To hide the speed of my retreat, I unpin my pillbox hat, give my scalp a good scratch, and quickly change topics. “On a happier note, I have this friend—an acquaintance really—who was at the second line tonight. Her name’s Lauren. I was going to introduce you, but then, you know…” I make a rolling motion with my hand. “Cash happened. Anyway, she teaches my spin class and sometimes comes into the bar for a drink. She’s sweet and funny, and she sure had eyes for you. Want me to set something up?”

  His lips twist into an impudent grin that would’ve seemed alien on the face of the boy I knew. On his man’s face? It looks right at home. “Sweet and funny usually means bad butt and weird boobs,” he says.

  I laugh and punch his arm. “No, it doesn’t, you big Neanderthal! Sweet and funny means sweet and funny. And did you miss the part where I said she teaches my spin class? I think that pretty much guarantees a good butt, at the very least.”

  “Not interested.”

  My brow pinches. “Why not?”

  He looks out at the street, his expression unreadable. “I’m not in the market for romance.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” I grunt. “Probably could’ve fooled that blonde the other night too.”

  “That was nothing. Just some fun and done.”

  “Oh, I get it.” I purse my lips. “And if I set you up with someone I know, it’ll obligate you to do more than have some fun and then be done?”

  “Exactly.”

  Planting my elbow on my knee, I cup my chin in my hand and study his profile. “Enjoying the bachelor life, are you?”

  He shrugs. “It’s suited me so far.”

  “Funny. I always pegged you for the marrying kind. I thought you’d have a ring on your finger and a whole passel of kids hanging off your arms by now. Did I read you wrong? Or have you changed that much?”

  He eyes me for a moment, then asks, “Would you believe me if I told you it was neither?”

  “Would that be the truth?”

  He makes a face of distaste. “The military is hell on relationships. I watched most of the guys in my unit get married, get wronged, or do the wronging themselves, and then get divorced. When and if I ever tie the knot, I aim to do it only once. And to make sure that happens, I’m thinking I oughta be the last thing my wife sees before going to sleep at night and the first thing she opens her eyes to each morning.” Before I have time to digest that, he hitches his chin toward my throat. I realize I’m working my locket in my hand when he says, “You’re still wearing it.”

  Looking down at the silver filigree heart, I murmur, “I remember the day you gave it to me. It was that first summer after we met, the third anniversary of my parents’ deaths.”

  He nods. “I thought Miss Bea was gonna bar me at the door when I came to drop it off.”

  “I’d been crying all morning, and she doesn’t believe in not putting your best face forward when it comes to company. But I jumped out of bed the minute I heard Smurf coming up the street.”

  “You were still in your pajamas when you came downstairs. She was shocked to her core.”

  “She was even more shocked when I sat with you on the porch swing without first putting on some clothes. ‘Magnolia May’”—I do my best impression of her—“‘the neighbors will think you were born in a barn!’”

  Switching back to my own voice, I ask, “How many houses full of furniture did you help move that summer so you could afford this?” I hold up the locket, letting it catch the light of the moon.

  He puts an arm around my shoulders. The clean, woodsy scent of his aftershave tickles my nose. “Every drop of sweat was worth it. Your expression when you opened that locket was priceless.”

  I open it now to see the faces of my parents staring up at me. The old pain is there, ever present, but it’s softer around the edges. Tempered by the years I’ve carried them close to my heart. Thanks to Luc.

  “I never knew how you got your hands on photos of them.” I softly trace the graceful line of my mother’s cheek with a fingertip.

  “I went to the newspaper. They had pictures of the hurricane victims, and when I told ’em what I wanted to do, they let me make copies.”

  I shake my head in wonder. “You’ve always been a better friend to me than I’ve ever been to you.”

  “Horseshit.”

  His vehemence startles a laugh from me. “It’s true!”

  “The hell it is. I was a miserable outcast at Braxton Academy. Until you came along, I thought about dropping out every day. You’re the only reason I got that damned diploma.”

  And I’d been considering doing a lot worse than dropping out before he showed up in my life. A lot worse.

  A gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the sweet gum tree on the corner. Bourbon Street’s bawdy laughter and loud music are nothing but a soft din here, but the familiar sound of cheer and happiness makes me realize how far I’ve come in the years since Luc and Cash left. As I look up at the sky, a black blanket studded with diamonds, I try to imagine what the next ten years will bring.

  He sees the direction of my gaze and murmurs, “The night sky always reminds me of the past.”

  “That’s weird. I was thinking about my future.”

  He’s doesn’t say anything to that, simply continues to stare at the sky. Reflected starlight glitters in his eyes.

  “So why does it make you think about the past?” I prompt.

  “’Cause it is the past. Take the Little Dipper.” He traces the stars that make up Ursa Minor. I still remember the names of the constellations thanks to my fifth-grade teacher who taught us a song about them to the tune of a Kelly Clarkson hit. “See the big, bright star at the end of the handle?”

  “Polaris?”

  He looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Don’t look so impressed. There are more than keg prices and liquor margins stored up here.” I tap my noggin.

  “Never doubted it for a minute,” he assures me. Then, “Polaris is 434 light-years away.”

  “Now, that I didn’t know,” I admit.

  “Which means the light we’re seeing now is 434 years old. For all we know, Polaris has gone supernova. But we can’t see it ’cause we’re not looking at Polaris’s present. We’re looking at its past.”

  I study the star in question, watching it pulse and twinkle. A snapshot of time gone by. Just like Cash and Luc.

  “It makes me feel small,” he admits.

  “You’re many things, Luc. But small isn’t one of them.”

  “What I mean is, we all think of ourselves as the heroes and heroines of our own epic tales. When instead, we’re simply bit players in the bigger story of the universe.”

  He’s always been a philosopher at heart. Pondering the big questions. Thinking the big thoughts.

  “I guess that puts our paltry problems in perspective, doesn’t it?” I say, realizing the alliteration only once it’s out of my mouth. “Ha! Say that ten times fast. Paltry
problems in perspective.”

  He changes the subject so quickly I’m caught off guard. “What time d’ya have to be at the bar tomorrow?”

  I cut him a glance, wondering if we were getting too close to a truth he’s not ready to share. “Eight,” I tell him. “I have to meet my beer distributor. He’s dropping off the kegs for the week.”

  He pulls a cell phone from the breast pocket of his sports coat and checks the time. I’m surprised to see it’s going on midnight. “I’ll walk you home,” he says.

  I turn to stare through the open door at the lump on the mattress that is Cash. “But Cash—” Before I get out another word, a soft snore drifts our way.

  “He’s fine,” Luc insists. “But I’ll come back and spend the night anyway. Just to make sure.”

  I shake my head. The silver locket has found its way into my fist again. “Neither of us ever deserved you, Luc.”

  Chapter Twelve

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  Everyone has someone who’s their favorite what-if.

  Magnolia May Carter is mine.

  What if I’d made my move earlier? What if I’d told Cash to go take a flying leap the day he sat down at our booth in the diner? What if I revealed to Maggie, here and now, how I’ve always felt?

  I’m dreaming about this last scenario when the buzz of my cell phone jolts me awake.

  I immediately feel the effects of a night spent vertical on one of Cash’s folding chairs. My neck has a crick from sleeping with my chin on my chest. My knees ache from having my feet propped on the other chair. And damned if my right butt cheek isn’t asleep.

  Groggily, I sit up as the dream vanishes like bayou fog hit by the sun. Casting a quick glance toward the mattress, I experience a slice of panic when I see Cash isn’t there. Then another buzz from my phone distracts me.

  Pulling the device from my jacket, I glance at the screen. A text is waiting.

  Maggie: The beer guy is late. Figured I’d see how y’all are doing. Everything OK?

  It’s zero eight twenty. Damn. I’m usually up with the sun. Last night must’ve worn me slap out.

  “Cash!” I yell. “Where the hell are you, man?”

  “Right here.” He appears in the door leading to the hallway. He’s freshly showered, wearing clean clothes, and looking a far sight better than I feel. Which is aggravating enough to make a preacher cuss.

  When he uncaps his flask and takes a quick drink, my irritation increases tenfold. “Really, Barney Gumble?”

  “Starting off the day on the right foot.” He salutes me with his flask before shoving it into his back pocket.

  I text Maggie.

  Me: Cash is fine. Already up and at ’em. Regret spending the night in his folding chair.

  Maggie: So glad you did. Helped me sleep knowing you were there. BTW, was thinking we shouldn’t tell him we want to go with him to VA. Better to spring it on him right B4 his next appointment.

  Me: Way ahead of you.

  Maggie: Figured. Oh, and hey! Y’all want to meet me @ Mr. B’s for bbq shrimp @ 7?

  I look up from my phone. Cash is still standing in the doorway watching me. “Who’re you texting?” he asks.

  “Maggie.”

  One of his eyebrows quirks. “She pissed at me for fucking up the second line?”

  “She should be, but she’s not. She wants to know if we wanna meet her for dinner tonight.”

  “No can do.” He shakes his head. “Got an electrician coming to check the wiring in the bathroom. Hoping he can tell me why that light keeps flickering.”

  “That’s late for an electrician, doncha think?”

  “Was either that or wait till next week, and I don’t want a short to cause the whole house to burn down before then. Don’t let me stop you, though. Go have dinner with her.”

  “I should,” I tell him crankily. “But I promised I’d help with this place, and that includes waiting on electricians.”

  “Yuck.” He wipes at his shirt like it’s covered in crumbs. “All that loyalty and niceness… Sometimes it’s impossible not to get some of it on me.”

  I smirk and tell him, “Such is your burden,” before going back to texting Maggie.

  Me: Gonna hafta bail on the bbq shrimp. Cash scheduled an electrician. Rain check?

  Maggie: Saturday? Aunt Bea and Auntie June are having that tea. They’d love to see y’all.

  “Maggie wants to know if we’ll come to her aunts’ tea this Saturday,” I tell Cash.

  He frowns. “Thought we were going to ask her to go with us to City Park that day.”

  “Can’t we do both?”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  I text Maggie.

  Me: We’ll be there.

  Maggie: *happy dance*

  Me: Talk soon?

  Maggie: Yes, please. And Luc? Thank you.

  Me: For what?

  Maggie: For being you. XO!

  I stare at that XO for far too long. It’s only when Cash says, “Hey, if you’re finished falling all over yourself for Maggie, let’s go get some breakfast. I’m starving.”

  I scowl at him. “There’s a difference between being a good friend and falling all over myself.”

  “Come on. Admit it. You’ve been in love with her since day one. Then I came along and fucked everything up.”

  I grit my teeth so my jaw won’t fall open. All these years, I never said anything. All these years, I thought I did a damn fine job of hiding my feelings.

  “It’s not so much that I’m in love with her,” I admit cautiously. “It’s just that I love a lot of things about her.”

  He crosses his arms. “Like what?”

  “Like her personality and her laugh and her gracious, trusting, wide-open heart.”

  “Oh, but you’re not in love with her?”

  “Even if I was, it wouldn’t matter.”

  He cocks his head. “And why’s that?”

  “’Cause she’s in love with you, you stupid bastard!”

  His Adam’s apple bobs. “She was in love with me. The old me.”

  “You are the old you. You just need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, stop drinking yourself into oblivion, and pull your damn head outta your damn ass.”

  Before he can say something else, I stand and shove past him. “I gotta take a leak.”

  Leaning against the closed bathroom door a few seconds later, I hear the haunting notes of a Cajun lullaby coming from the house next door. Usually, the sweet melody would soothe my frayed nerves. Not this morning.

  This morning, I silently curse the light flickering overhead. I curse Cash for being such a self-centered, self-indulgent asshat. And then, for good measure, I curse myself for not being able to kill off all those pesky feelings that, by all accounts, should’ve died years ago.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Whoever said time flies wasn’t missing someone.

  It’s been five days since I’ve seen Cash or Luc, and every intervening minute has dragged by like it’s been weighed down by an anchor.

  Isn’t that crazy? After spending only one day together, I feel like they’re a part of me again. I find myself turning around to tell them about that funny thing that happened, or that weird patron who came into my bar dressed in nothing but yards of red cellophane. And like they’re a missing arm or leg, I notice that they’re gone.

  I’m not suffering from phantom limb syndrome, but phantom friend syndrome.

  That’s partly my fault, I suppose. I could’ve called Luc or gone to see Cash. But I just couldn’t make myself make the first move. And now, given the five days of radio silence, I’m second-guessing inviting them to the tea. Especially since I didn’t get the chance to warn them what they’d be in for.

  Vee was right. The aunts will be happy to see them again. But maybe this wasn’t the best way to make that happen.

  Nervously,
I pace the length of the veranda spanning the front of my aunt’s Garden District mansion. The architecture of her home is Greek Revival-style with an Italianate bay that was added on after the initial construction. It’s painted bright white with wrought-iron details and six big columns that extend the height of its towering three stories. In the mid-1800s, it was built to impress by a cotton magnate.

  To this day, it still does exactly that. Impress.

  I’m lucky I got to finish growing up here after my parents died. But honestly? This place has never felt like home. It’s too big. Too fancy. I’m afraid to touch the antiques. And every time it rains, I leave my shoes by the front door, unable to bear the thought of tracking water onto one of the heirloom rugs.

  “For heaven’s sake, Magnolia,” Aunt Bea says from the doorway. “Stop spinning in circles and panting like an overexcited puppy. Come inside before the guests start arriving.”

  “Oh, leave her alone.” Auntie June comes to stand beside me. “It’s not every day a woman gets a second chance at her first love.”

  Those words have a weight the size of a crosstown bus landing on my chest.

  Is this a second chance?

  All this time, I thought I was holding on to Cash because the mystery of his sudden departure made it impossible to let him go. Like Sherlock Holmes with a juicy clue, I couldn’t rest until the case was closed. But maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe the Fates knew he would come back into my life. Maybe, in the end, our destinies have always been intertwined.

  Didn’t Madame LaRouche say as much?

  Auntie June’s sunny smile wrinkles her face like parchment paper. The colorful print of her sundress—which she probably purchased off the rack at Walmart—picks up the rosy hue of her cheeks and the faded blue in her eyes. By contrast, Aunt Bea is dressed in a gray designer suit—black and gray are her go-to colors—and the double strand of pearls around her neck matches the icy shade of her perfect, salon-styled hair.