Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Means too much information, right?”

  I nod.

  She shrugs and takes another big gulp of champagne before adding, “Back when I was your age, I would’ve been happy to learn my plumbing would still be working at the ripe old age of eighty-three.”

  I squeeze her shoulder. “Just one of the many, many reasons I love you.”

  Out on the dance floor, Luc and Sally Renee are making quite the scene. Well, Sally is making quite the scene. I didn’t know a waltz could look so blatantly sexual.

  “She’s young enough to be Old Man Rutherford’s daughter,” I muse as the song comes to an end.

  Auntie June guffaws. “More like his granddaughter. She got the old coot’s money, and I guess now she’s looking for a young buck she can spend it on. Uh… Sorry. I better git.” She turns and quickly disappears into the crowd.

  I frown, wondering what caused her to skedaddle in such an all-fire hurry. Then Luc steps in front of me, distracting me from her retreat. That Superman whorl is falling over his forehead, and those brown eyes of his are sparkling with humor…and maybe a smidge of desperation.

  “Save me. Please.” He offers his hand.

  I chuckle and let him spin me onto the dance floor. The band has switched to a slow song, and most of the well-heeled couples around us are swaying softly to the music. Luc pulls me close, and I close my eyes.

  He smells like Cash. Like he used Cash’s soap and shampoo.

  My belly dips, and I have to remind myself that the strong arms wrapped around my waist are those of a dear friend and not the love of my life.

  “You’ve been wonderful tonight.” I press a cheek against his chest. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

  “It’s been kinda fun,” he admits, his tone begrudging. “You know, once I got past the part where I felt like a ripe melon at a fruit stand.”

  “These women aren’t exactly subtle in their inspections, are they? Are you bruised from all the poking and prodding?”

  “And thumping,” he adds. “I was thumped a coupla times too.”

  I giggle. “Who knows? Maybe one of them will actually want to buy the melon.”

  “One already did. Her name is Sally Renee Rutherford, and as far as I can figure, she’s gonna try her best to eat me whole.”

  A smile curves my lips when he shudders dramatically. “Why not let her? She’s pretty, if you don’t mind that plastic Barbie doll look. And according to Auntie June, she’s recently come into loads of money. You could be her kept man to begin with. Then who knows? It might blossom into love.”

  He makes a rude noise. “You’re a romantic.”

  I pull back to look at him. His beard stubble is less obvious tonight, although it’s still there. More of a two o’clock shadow than a five o’clock shadow.

  I try to see him through the eyes of the women who bid on him. But to me, he’ll always be that shy, gangly teenager with the quiet smile and a heart as soft and wet as a summer rain.

  “And that makes you what?” I ask. “A cynic?”

  “Maybe.” He hitches one shoulder. “It’s easier being a cynic. You can’t be disappointed by things when you think those things are already disappointing.”

  “You think falling in love is disappointing?”

  Again, he shrugs one shoulder.

  “And how would you know? Have you ever been in love?”

  He shakes his head ruefully. “Nope. Never. But I reckon that’s ’cause I was always holding a candle for you.”

  “Please.” I roll my eyes. “Don’t forget you told me about all the casual sex you’ve been having.”

  His dimples flash. “I never claimed to be a monk. I only said I never fell in love ’cause I was holding a candle.” His words are starting to make me uneasy. “People hold candles, Maggie May.”

  Oh dear Lord in heaven. He’s serious.

  Is the floor falling out from under my feet? I look down, astonished to discover it’s still there.

  “Luc, I—”

  “Shhh,” he interrupts. “I know you love Cash. I know you’ll always love Cash. And I don’t want things to get weird between us, but I thought it was time to shed some light on the things I’ve kept in the dark for too long. Now it’s done. Now we can move on with open hearts and clear heads.”

  My throat feels full. There’s heat behind my eyes.

  “Luc…” That’s all I can get out. Maybe there’s a part of me that’s occasionally wondered. There was the time before Cash arrived, and then there was the night in the swamp. But if so, it was a part I chose to ignore because it hurts to think I could ever cause him pain or make him feel—

  “Don’t make me regret telling you, Maggie May,” he cuts into my thoughts. “After all these years, and after everything we’ve been through together, we’re supposed be able to shoot each other straight.”

  I nod and pull him close, trying to think of the right words to tell him what’s in my heart.

  “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen years old, Luc,” I eventually whisper. “I will always love you.”

  But I’m not in love with him. I don’t add that, of course. There’s no need. We both know it’s true.

  He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll always love you too, Maggie May, ’cause that’s what friends do. And no matter what, we are friends.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Apologies are the glue of life. They have the remarkable ability to fix most things.

  At least that’s what I’ve been told.

  Standing outside Maggie’s bar, I know I need to go in and ask for her forgiveness. Can’t seem to make my feet move, though. Not because I’m dreading saying I’m sorry, but because I can see her clearly through the front window, and I’m struck dumb by the sight of my sparkly, shiny girl with her tight black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and arms full of bracelets.

  G-O-N-E-R. What does that spell? Cash Armstrong.

  With effort, I shake myself out of my daze and rap my knuckles against the glass. When she sees me and the big bouquet of “I’m sorry” roses clutched in my hands, her face is about as welcoming as a roadkill dinner. She circles the bar and comes to the door.

  Figuring it’s always best to lead with a joke in this type of situation, when she swings the door wide and looks me up and down, I say, “I can’t tell if you’re inviting me in or sizing me up for a coffin.”

  “Can’t I do both?”

  “Now, I know you’re mad at me…” I hand her the flowers as I push past her.

  “But?” She lets the bouquet dangle upside down, twisting the dead bolt behind me.

  “But nothing. I was simply stating a fact.”

  She snorts.

  Okay, time to eat some crow.

  “I’m here to say I’m sorry. Truly.” When that’s not enough to smooth the deep line from between her eyebrows, I add, “Nowadays, I’m better in theory than in practice, and yesterday my head was hurting like the fires of hell. I tried to take the edge off, but the whiskey got ahead of me. Luc did a great job, though, right? He probably raised more money for your aunt’s charity than I ever could.”

  “He raised five grand.”

  I whistle. “See? Told you.”

  She makes her way back to the bar. Filling a beer pitcher with water, she unceremoniously drops the roses inside.

  I wince. Okay. Maybe it’s a lot of crow I need to eat.

  Planting the bouquet next to the register, she shoves her hands on her hips. “When’s your next doctor’s appointment?”

  My chin jerks back at the sudden twist in the conversation. “Uh, next Friday. Why?”

  “I’m coming with you. Luc’s coming too. We want to talk to this doctor and see if something more can be done for you.”

  Apprehension stabs into me. My head, which was blessedly pain free when I woke up this morning, suffers a twinge. “Nothing more can be done. And if you and Luc come, three people will
be wasting their time instead of just one. Believe me.”

  “I’ll believe you when I hear it from the horse’s mouth.” Her answer is a bull’s-eye shot straight through the heart of my argument. “Or maybe not even then,” she adds. “I’m not ruling out getting you a second opinion.”

  “Get me a third and a fourth. They’ll all be the same. It is what it is. My head’s broken. Not a damn thing doctors can do about that.”

  “We’ll see.” She grabs a pint glass and starts polishing it, daring me to naysay her.

  “Fine. Come. I won’t stop you.” I grab a seat at the bar. “Now, do you forgive me for last night? Not that you should let me play the injured-soldier card, but I’m hoping you will.” I bat my eyelashes beseechingly.

  She gives me the side-eye for a while, but eventually says, “You could fall into a barrel full of cow patties and still come out smelling like a rose. You know that, right?”

  I point at her. “That’s a yes.”

  She shakes her head, but it ends with the corners of her mouth kicking up. “You’re forgiven. For last night,” she’s quick to emphasize. “But that injured-soldier card is already getting pretty worn. Be careful you don’t overuse it.”

  I cross my heart and hold up my hand in a silent pledge. “Now, I’m not usually the hugging sort, but I’m feeling emotional this morning. Bring it in.” Leaning over the bar, I motion for her to meet me halfway.

  She tries and fails to hold on to her pique. “Ugh. Why do you make it impossible to hate you?”

  Breathing her in when she puts her arms around me, I love the zing of awareness at the same time I curse it. This would all be so much easier if I didn’t still love her. If I could bring myself to tell her to stay as far away from me as humanly possible.

  But I can’t.

  A hard knock sounds at the front door, followed by a bellow of, “Little pig, little pig, let me in!”

  Earl’s at the entrance. He’s wearing a bright red windbreaker and a polo shirt sporting the Omni Royal emblem. His stark white mustache is nearly touching the glass as he peers inside.

  “Excuse me.” Maggie dons her best exaggerated Southern belle accent. “It appears I have a gentleman caller.”

  Snickering, I watch her round the bar. When she unlocks the door, Earl hurries inside, complaining and rubbing his arms. “I feel the cold like a thin man.”

  “Probably because you are a thin man,” Maggie tells him. “Sometimes I wonder if you stuff rocks in your pockets to keep a stiff breeze from blowing you into the next parish.”

  Earl skids to a stop when he sees me at the bar. He checks his watch, then checks the clock on the wall above the bar. Bon Temps Rouler doesn’t officially open for another twenty minutes.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands.

  Obviously, I’ve intruded on his alone time with Maggie.

  “Came to see you, Earl,” I tell him.

  “Ah, shucks. Folks will say we’re in love.” He takes a seat at the bar and waves Maggie off when she starts to add cream to the cup of coffee she pours him. “Black for me this morning, Maggie. I ain’t taken a decent shit in two days.”

  She grimaces. “So that was an overshare. What is it with everyone in my life oversharing lately? Do I have a big sticker on my forehead that reads ‘Tell me all your secrets’?”

  “Huh?” Earl frowns at her.

  I cock my head, wondering who’s been sharing what.

  “Never mind.” She waves us off.

  Shrugging unconcernedly, Earl mumbles, “This getting old is about as fun as a fried-egg fart.” He blows across the top of his coffee before taking a sip.

  “You’re not old.” Maggie pats his shoulder. “You’re seasoned. There’s a difference.”

  He chuckles. Then his smile is quickly replaced by an eager leer when she pops the top on a green Tupperware container. “Please tell me you made sweet potato biscuits this morning,” he begs.

  “I made sweet potato biscuits this morning,” she tells him without missing a beat. “I know they’re your favorite.” She pulls the tub away when he reaches for it. “But I don’t know if you should be eating them given you’re, ahem, gastrointestinal issues.”

  “Don’t tease me.” He makes a gimme motion with one hand and she easily relents, letting him fish out a biscuit. He dunks it straight into his coffee. After taking a bite, he makes mmm-mmm noises. “Marry me, Maggie darlin’. Let me make an honest woman out of you.”

  Her giggle hits me in the heart. “I’m way too stodgy for you, Earl. You’d be bored of me in a minute.”

  “Not if you made these every morning,” he insists, dunking his biscuit again.

  Maggie lifts the Tupperware in my direction, a silent offering, but I wave her off. My appetite has disappeared of late.

  Earl finishes his biscuit in three bites, then he hits me with a no-nonsense stare. “So what’re you really doing here this morning?”

  “I brought Maggie some flowers.” I point to the roses.

  “It’s his way of apologizing for standing me up last night,” she adds.

  Earl’s expression is the picture of incredulity. “You stood her up? Boy, your brains must rattle around like a BB in a boxcar. Anyone with an IQ higher than a Louisiana tree stump would know not to leave the likes of her hanging.”

  “In my defense”—I hold up my hands—“I sent someone in my place.”

  His jaw unhinges so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t hit the bar. “Well, now I know you ain’t got the good sense God gave a goose.”

  Maggie beams and reaches across the bar to tweak Earl’s mustache. “Thank you, Earl. My thoughts exactly.”

  Before I can say more, my phone buzzes. I know who it is before I look at the screen. There are only two people in the world who text me. One of them is standing five feet away.

  Luc: I’m @ the house. Where the hell are you?

  Me: Maggie’s bar. Be there in 15.

  Luc: Hope she’s served you a big piece of humble pie.

  Me: Yum, yum.

  “Speaking of my stand-in”—I push away from the bar—“that’s him. Need to get back to the house before he starts tearing down walls I don’t want torn down. The man is a menace with a sledgehammer.”

  “Hey, Cash?” Maggie stops me when I turn for the door. “Tell Luc I said, ‘Thank you. Again.’”

  Her voice sounds funny, and there’s something in her face that isn’t quite right. “Did something happen last night?” I ask.

  “No.” She shakes her head, but for some reason I don’t believe her. Before I can question her further, she makes shooing motions toward the door. “If you’re a smart man, you might consider swinging by the flower shop again. I hope all that groveling you did for me didn’t scrape up your knees too badly. You owe Luc a nice bouquet and bit of bootlicking too.”

  “Do you think he likes daisies?” I ask.

  She chuckles. “On second thought, a six-pack and a day off from working on your house is probably a better way to tell him you’re sorry.”

  “The beer’s easy enough. As for the day off, how about Sunday? It’s the first one of the month, and we said we’d do brunch and plan our first excursion. You still in?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  I’m waiting for the boy who will do anything to be my everything.

  A girl sitting two tables over is wearing a hoodie with that slogan printed across the front. She’s with two friends, and none of them looks a minute over fourteen. They’re all so bright and shiny I feel the need to shade my eyes when I look at them.

  Since it’s raining cats and dogs, Café Du Monde is doing only half its usual trade. Which allows me to quietly sip my coffee and eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “It was him,” the one in the hoodie says. “He didn’t take off that silly Halloween mask until the end of the night. But when he did?” She presses a hand to her chest. “It was magical.”


  “You had to have known it was him before,” one of her friends says. She has the most amazing head of fuchsia-colored hair.

  “Well, I had my suspicions, especially when he took my hand.” Hoodie sighs and closes her eyes.

  “What happened when he took your hand?” the other girl asks eagerly. This one’s wearing big, cat-eye glasses and enough turquoise eye shadow to paint half the houses in the Vieux Carré.

  “Sparks. I’m telling y’all. My whole arm lit up.”

  “So he takes his mask off, and then what?” Eye Shadow prompts. “Did he kiss you?”

  “Heavens no.” Hoodie shakes her head. “You think I’d give him the sugar before he takes me on a proper date? My momma raised me better than that.”

  “So if he didn’t kiss you once the mask was off, what did he do?” demands Fuchsia Hair.

  Hoodie looks smug and self-satisfied. “He asked me out on a proper date.”

  I wince and dig a finger in my ear when three sets of window-shattering squeals fill the room. But, oh, I remember being their age and having all those big emotions. Being giddy and desperate to fall in love, to experience the breathless kind of romance I’d only ever read about in books or watched on the silver screen.

  Taking another sip of café au lait, I think back to the first time Cash asked me out. It took him nearly five months, because for whatever reason—misplaced chivalry would be my guess—he declared right from the start that we couldn’t get serious until I turned fifteen.

  Of course, that didn’t stop us from spending hours gazing into each other’s eyes or holding hands every chance we got. “But absolutely no kissing,” I remember him saying a million times over. “And no formal dates until you’re of age.”

  I’m not sure who put it in his head that “of age” was fifteen. But that’s the line he drew in the sand. No matter how many times I tried to pull him over it, he never budged.

  Then came my fifteenth birthday. It was a Saturday that dawned warm and wet. Spring came early that year, pushing winter aside with an impatient hand.