Whereas Auntie June is soft and round and a bit disheveled, Aunt Bea is as skinny as a fence post and nipped and tucked to perfection. Auntie June prefers to spend her days puttering around the garden or baking mouthwatering delights in the kitchen. Aunt Bea likes her bridge club and her country club and chairing the boards of too many charities to count.
But if you’re imagining Aunt Bea is cold and unfeeling, think again. She didn’t hesitate to take in Auntie June after June’s husband, a fella known as “Good Time” Jack Goudeau, gambled away their life savings before up and having himself a heart attack. Neither did she hesitate to take in me and my sister after our parents died.
“You always were a romantic,” she accuses Auntie June before turning back into the house, softly closing the door behind her.
“She says that like it’s a bad thing.” Auntie June blinks in mock confusion.
I laugh and squeeze her shoulder before I start pacing again.
“Come here, honey.” She slips an arm around my waist and steers me toward the porch swing. “Come sit with me. All that back and forth is making me nervous as a woodshed waiter.”
We sit and set the swing rocking. It’s a slow, placid glide, perfect for the slow, placid pace of life Auntie June prefers. After a while, my knotted nerves begin to loosen.
“It’s still hot as Hades,” she complains, fanning an aged hand in front of her face. The air around us is sticky despite the gently paddling ceiling fan blades overhead.
“The weather should break any day now,” I assure her, breathing in deep the smells of rosinweed and autumn sage.
“The good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” she agrees.
I’ve never understood that particular colloquialism. Although, the sentiment isn’t lost on me.
We swing in companionable silence for a long while, listening as a harmonica echoes from somewhere nearby. Someone else is out on their front porch, enjoying the lazy heat of the day.
Looking out over the front yard with its precisely trimmed grass and colorfully rioting flower beds, I let my eyes linger on the two live oak trees that stand at the front corners. I’ve always thought of them as grand, Southern ladies. Their gray hair drapes down to the ground in the form of Spanish moss.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I eventually get up the nerve to ask.
“What do you mean?” Auntie June tucks a wispy strand of stark white hair back into the bun on top of her head.
“To even consider letting myself fall for a second time? Cash refuses to admit what drove him away. So who’s to say the same thing won’t send him running again?”
She regards me thoughtfully before lifting one shoulder. “You know what they say. The heart wants what the heart wants.”
“Yeah.” I rub a finger over my tattoo, remembering all the times Cash touched me in this exact spot, remembering all the times he touched me in other spots. He was the gentlest, most patient teacher. Too patient sometimes, especially since I was an eager learner. “But that brings me back to my original question. What if my heart is bat-crap crazy?”
She laughs, and it’s a wonderful sound. That of a woman a quarter of her age, all tinkling and bright. “All hearts are bat-crap crazy, honey. It’s the nature of hearts.”
“But shouldn’t I be…” I shake my head. “I don’t know. Cautious?”
“Because you think being cautious will stop you from getting hurt again?”
“Well…” I spread my hands. “Yeah.”
She sighs and uses the toe of her black ballet flat to give the swing another push. The chains squeak rhythmically. An Acadian flycatcher, perched in the branches of the tree nearest us, answers back. Its tuneful call, a two-note peet-seet, sounds upbeat and hopeful. Unlike my current mood.
“You know what I think?” Auntie June says after a while. “I think too many folks spend too much time building walls around themselves, trying to stay protected from all the shots this old world takes at them. But we were made to take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. And at the end of our lives…” She motions to herself. “You can take my word for this because, at eighty-three, I’m getting close to the end of mine. The only times you truly regret are the ones when you didn’t throw all your chips on the table.”
I smile at the gambling reference. “So you don’t regret Good Time Jack? Even though he left you penniless and dependent on Aunt Bea?”
A wistful sort of melancholy falls over her face. “Every minute I spent with that man was a miracle. He made me laugh. He made me sing. He danced with me in the kitchen every night after we put Jack Jr. and Danica to bed. And he’d have won back every red cent of what he lost at the card tables had the good Lord not seen fit to take him when He did. Jack was a good husband, a good provider, and a darn-tootin’ good father. And yeah, okay, so he liked to gamble.” She lifts her hands. “You learn to take the good with the bad. That’s marriage, honey. Don’t let anyone, especially those Disney movies, tell you different. It’s supposed to be hard. Without the hard times, the good times wouldn’t taste so sweet.”
I kiss her temple. The smell of baby powder and rose water makes me sentimental. “I love you, Auntie June. You know that, right?”
She pats my hand. “Hold that thought, honey. Your guests are arriving.”
I follow her line of sight and see Smurf crawling up the street in our direction. My mind is thrown back to the time Cash borrowed Luc’s truck to drop off a flip-book he made for me. The little token was kind of corny. Even my spongy teenage brain knew that. And looking at it assured me he definitely wouldn’t grow up to be an artist. But it was also incredibly sweet and ridiculously cute.
Only twenty pages long, it told our story. In fact, that was the title he wrote on the cover. The Story of Us. Stick figures—Cash drew his character with hearts for eyes—depicted the first time we met, and they tracked the progression of our relationship in the following pages along with a cute narrative written in word bubbles.
At first, I thought the book was uncharacteristic given Cash’s tough-guy persona. Something Luc would do, not Cash—and maybe Luc did put him up to it initially. But the longer I knew Cash, the more I realized his tough-guy persona was meant for everyone but me. With me, he showed his softer side.
Which is another reason why I’ve never understood why he left the way he did. I thought I was special. I thought he felt comfortable telling me anything.
Obviously, I was wrong.
I was wrong, and yet I still have the flip-book.
No matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t make myself throw it away. Thumbing through it again this morning, I wondered if it’s possible that there are still pages to add in The Story of Us.
“They’re early,” Auntie June observes.
I wince. “I may’ve told them this thing starts in ten minutes instead of forty.”
“Wanted them to yourself before the debs and all their accompanying chaos descends, did you?” She gives me a knowing glance.
“Not everyone coming today is a debutante. There are some matrons and matriarchs thrown into the mix.”
She snorts. “Former debs, each and every one. You think it’s wise to lay out this female smorgasbord for your fellas, seeing as how they’ve probably spent a good portion of the last ten years in a field tent with a bunch of hairy, smelly men?”
I grin. “I’m not worried about Cash. He can hold his own against the fairer sex. As for Luc, it might do him some good to be surrounded by a room full of beautiful women. He seems…” I search for the right word and come up with, “Lonely. Although he won’t admit it. He claims he’s enjoying the bachelor life.”
Despite his objections, I’m considering arranging a casual introduction between him and Lauren. You know, something simple, maybe accidently on purpose telling them to come to the bar at the same time. Or how about a dinner party? I could invite Cash and Jean-Pierre and—
“I always thought those two made an interesting pair.” Auntie June interrupts m
y mental machinations.
“Who? Luc and Cash?”
She nods.
“Yeah. Cash is all about the excitement and the drama,” I say. “He keeps everyone on their toes. While Luc is super easy. Being around him is like sitting on the banks of the Gulf watching the tide turn.”
Luc parks Smurf next to the curb and he and Cash shove out of the truck. They make their way up the walk, and my palms begin to sweat.
Luc looks dark and dapper in a fawn-colored sports coat. Cash is wearing a lightweight gray suit sans tie. The first two buttons on his dress shirt are open, and I’m struck by the contrast between the tanned skin of his throat and the white cotton of his shirt.
Today he looks healthy.
Today he looks sober.
I feel an overwhelming rush of relief.
“Lord have mercy.” Auntie June fans herself. “Hotter than two-dollar pistols, the both of them.”
I laugh, but I think it has more to do with nerves than my great-aunt’s colorful assessment.
Auntie June and Aunt Bea were my father’s aunts. His father was their brother. But he’s long gone now, died of colon cancer before I was born. Now the family consists of me, Vee, Aunt Bea, Auntie June and her kids and grandkids. Which doesn’t seem like nearly enough. Because, like Michael J. Fox once said, Family is not an important thing. It’s everything.
“Miss June!” Cash booms once he and Luc have climbed the front steps. Years ago, he learned that, here in the South, when you address an older woman, it’s a sign of respect to add Miss in front of her first name regardless of her marital status. “It sure is good to see you. You remember us, right?”
“How could I forget?” Auntie June asks as I help her stand from the porch swing. “You’re the two scoundrels who got Maggie thrown in jail for fishing without a license.”
“I didn’t get thrown in jail,” I argue. “I only got fined.”
It’s been a long time since I thought about that day down by the river. I remember it was warm and sunny, and for once the humidity wasn’t sitting at nearly 90 percent. Luc and Cash stayed busy catching channel cats—those big, slimy fish with their bulbous eyes and long whiskers—but I spent most of the afternoon lying on a blanket, lazily reading a book and watching the dragonflies flit around the wildflowers.
“And brought home in the park ranger’s truck, if memory serves,” Auntie June insists.
“That’s true,” I admit. “Aunt Bea was fit to be tied.”
“Her usual state.” Auntie June grins. Then she turns to Cash. “Cassius Armstrong, still handsome as homemade sin, I see.”
He kisses the back of her hand. “I don’t know how you do it, Miss June, but you’re aging backward. You look younger now than you did ten years ago.”
She makes a rude noise. “And still too charming for your own good.” She turns to look Luc up and down, whistling through her dentures. “Lucien, my boy, look at you. Pretty as a pie supper. How come some woman hasn’t leg-shackled you yet, huh?”
He leans forward to kiss her weathered cheek. “Are you volunteering, Miss June?”
She hoots merrily and slaps his shoulder. “You couldn’t keep up with me.” An ornery twinkle enters her eye when she threads her arm through his. “But I’m of a mind to let you try.” She leads him toward the front door, calling back to me and Cash, “Come on, y’all. Come inside out of this pea-pickin’ heat.”
Before I can follow, Cash stays me with a hand on my wrist. “We’ll be there in a sec,” he assures her.
I glance up at him questioningly after Luc and Auntie June disappear inside.
“I want to say two things,” he tells me.
My heart begins to gallop like a runaway horse. Is this it? Is he ready to explain?
“The first is, I’m sorry about ruining the second line. And the second is, you look especially pretty today.”
I release a disappointed breath. Then, pasting on a fake smile, I bat my eyelashes and thicken my accent. “This old thing? I grabbed the first thing in my closet.”
“Bullshit.”
I can’t decide if I love it or hate it that he knows me so well.
Unlike Vee, I’ve never been comfortable breathing Aunt Bea’s rarefied air, or rubbing elbows with her high-society friends. So I don a layer of armor before going into battle. Today’s armor includes a cinnamon-colored wrap dress, a forty-dollar blowout, and Mom’s diamond earrings that Vee let me borrow after ten minutes of badgering.
“Okay, so you got me,” I admit. “After ransacking three stores at the outlet mall, I scored this dress off the discount rack. But forget about me, what about you?” I step back to take him in. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”
He adjusts his cuffs. “Didn’t want to give Miss Bea another reason to dislike me. Figured I better bring my A game.”
“Aunt Bea likes you just fine.” I tug him toward the door. “As long as you’re not getting me fined by the National Park Service or fighting the school football star over my honor.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could reel them back in. I grimace when Cash’s expression falls.
The spring of my freshman year, Dean Sullivan decided to hate my guts. Every time he saw me in the hallway at school, he knocked my books and assignments out of my hands and called me terrible names.
I never told Cash or Luc what was happening, but somehow they got wind of it anyway. Before I could stop him, Cash caught Dean behind the gym and beat the living crap out of him.
Cash was always in scraps with someone, but it was usually a matter of self-defense. The hoity-toity kids at Braxton Academy didn’t take kindly to “his kind,” a Northerner who didn’t give a rat’s furry behind about their old money or their illustrious Southern families. More often than not, they attempted to put him in his place with their fists. But that thing with Dean wasn’t about self-defense. It was about punishment. It was about humiliation.
It was about me.
Some girls might’ve liked it. A big, strapping boy coming to their rescue is the stuff of all those over-the-top TV shows that are so popular on The CW. But it just turned my stomach.
I’ve never understood the fundamental nature of human beings that keeps us from getting along. There’s already so much violence in the world with things like earthquakes, hurricanes, and disease. Why the heck do we insist on sowing more discord and brutality?
But that’s neither here nor there. Long story short, despite Dean’s hulking stature, Cash came away from that fight with only a black eye. Dean came away with a bloody nose, three cracked teeth, a broken rib, and a grudge that ultimately came to a terrible end in a dark, dank bayou.
“You have no idea how many times I wished I’d handled that differently,” Cash says now. “If I hadn’t gone after Dean, he might not have—”
“Shush.” I cut him off, refusing to let my mind linger on that night. Anytime I do, I get sick to my stomach and break out in a cold sweat. Neither condition is suitable for one of Aunt Bea’s teas. “That’s all water over the dam. The only thing I regret is that you let him get in a good swipe. Then again, you always had to take a few punches from your opponents, didn’t you? I can’t remember a time when one or the other of your eyes wasn’t blackened or your lip wasn’t split. Oh, and don’t think I’ve forgotten that you never got around to telling me how you got this.” I point to the scar cutting through his eyebrow.
“Can’t a man have his secrets?” He offers me a crooked grin before throwing open the front door and gesturing for me to precede him.
I search his eyes. Doesn’t he know it’s a secret that’s keeping me from knowing how to be when I’m around him? From knowing where we go from here? But instead of asking these questions aloud, I prove I’m a coward and simply step inside.
Once my eyes have adjusted to the dimness, I squeal with delight. “Eva! I thought your London fashion shoot didn’t get over until tomorrow!”
My best childhood friend runs over and fo
lds me into her fragrant embrace. “The designer had himself an old-fashioned conniption fit and decided to scrap the entire collection.” Her voice is low and sultry, soft in the consonants and long in the vowels.
Eva was born and raised here in the Crescent City—except for the handful of years she spent in Texas after Katrina—but her accent is straight out of Alabama. She claims she picked it up from her momma before the wretched woman ran off and left her to be raised by her paternal grandmother.
“Designers,” I say with disdain, as if I have any idea what I’m talking about. The closest I ever come to high fashion is Eva or Aunt Bea. Bon Temps Rouler allows me to make ends meet—and even put a little away each month into the IRA Aunt Bea helped me set up—but I definitely don’t have enough for Gucci or La Perla or Vera Wang.
Eva and I hold each other at arm’s length. She’s wearing a white halter dress that contrasts dramatically with her skin. The midcalf skirt accentuates her slimness. And she’s added to her nearly six feet of perfection with a pair of strappy, gold kitten heels. Whereas I’m petite and passable, Eva is tall and beautiful. Standing side by side, we must look like Mutt and Jeff.
“Thanks for watering my plants while I was gone.” She gives me the side-eye. “And I see you were busy with the vine in the kitchen.”
“It was starting to grow wild,” I tell her. “I thought I should give it a trim before it blocked your way to the sink.”
Ever since we were small, Eva has loved houseplants. But her hectic schedule as a much-sought-after fashion model means she has little time to look after her own. I try to check in on them when she’s off somewhere exciting and exotic.
“And the tub of La Mer skin cream on the counter?” She purses her lips.
“Sephora was having a sale, and I know how much you love that stuff.”
She folds me into another quick hug. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Nonsense,” I assure her. “Consider it a thank-you for that amazing leather jacket.”
Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1 Page 11