“Okay.” I nod. “But even if that’s the case, and I’m not saying it is, that doesn’t change anything, does it? I’m right, aren’t I, to want to be careful? To think it’s best not to jump into anything that might hurt one or both of them?”
Before either of them has a chance to answer, a voice calls up from below, “Excuse me!”
The three of us exchange a glance.
“Excuse me!” the voice calls a second time. “My phone died and my husband left his back at the hotel! Can you tell us how to get to Lafitte’s Old Absinthe House?”
Even if the New England accent didn’t make it obvious the owner of the voice is a tourist, the request for directions to one of Bourbon Street’s most popular hangouts would. Visitors to the city love the idea that it’s the place where General Andrew Jackson and our resident outlaw pirate, Jean Lafitte, hatched the plan to work together to fend off the approaching British fleet during the War of 1812.
Thrusting aside my blanket, I ignore Yard’s groan of displeasure and lean over the balcony railing. A couple who look to be in their mid to late forties stare up at me.
“Keep going the way you’re going.” I point up the street. “Once you hit Bourbon, head uptown.”
The man and woman glance at each other before turning confused stares my way.
“Which way is uptown?” the man asks.
“Oh, right.” I laugh, explaining to them that in New Orleans, we don’t abide by the cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west. Instead, we use the geography of the city: lake, river, downtown, uptown, respectively. “Left on Bourbon Street,” I tell them. “Then go a couple of blocks.”
They smile and wave their thanks. After they’re gone, movement below catches my eye. That irritating reporter steps from the shadows of Emeril Lagasse’s famous French Quarter restaurant.
“Ugh.” I fist my hands on my hips and call down to her, “This borders on harassment, you know?”
Eva and Jean-Pierre—excellent friends that they are—leap up to flank me.
Instead of looking chagrined, however, the reporter offers me a smile. It looks particularly toothy in the glow of the streetlamp. “I thought you said you’d be willing to talk after Mr. Dubois was cleared of wrongdoing.”
“Yeah.” I cross my arms. “So?”
“So I figured since the charges against him were officially dropped, that maybe now you’d—”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says. I’m too fixated on the sensation of the bottom falling out of my stomach. My knees give way, but luckily the end of the chaise is there to catch me.
“Didn’t you watch the evening news?” the reporter calls.
“She’s goin’ to need to talk to ya another time,” Jean-Pierre answers. “How ’bout…uh…” He looks down at me and whispers, “Tomorrow mornin’ work for ya, cher?”
I nod absently.
“Tomorrow mornin’,” he calls to the reporter. “She’ll meet ya at Café Du Monde at eight sharp.”
The journalist responds, but I don’t catch what she’s saying. I’m too focused on pulling out my cell phone and, with trembling fingers, texting Luc.
Me: Is it true? Were the charges dropped?
He starts responding immediately, and I wait impatiently as the three dots scroll lazily across the bottom of my screen as if this is an everyday text exchange instead of one of the most important moments of my life. Eventually, his answer appears.
Luc: Yep. Abelman gave me the news 2 hours ago.
I cry out in frustration, angrily typing.
Me: Why didn’t u TELL me?!? Had to find out from that awful reporter!
Luc: ??? Check your voice mail.
Sure enough. There it is. That glowing number two atop my green phone icon. One alert letting me know I missed a call, the other telling me I have a voice mail waiting.
Gah! Aunt Bea did too good a job. That’s the last time I listen to her voice in my head saying, A good hostess gives her full attention to her guests.
Me: Turned off alerts b/c Jean-Pierre & Eva were coming to dinner! Where r u?
Luc: Still @ Cash’s.
Me: Stay put. Coming over.
Pocketing my phone, I find Eva and Jean-Pierre watching me expectantly. “Well?” Eva asks. “Is it true?”
Fighting happy tears, I manage a nod.
Whooping, Jean-Pierre pulls me into a hug that lifts me off my feet. Eva joins in, and soon the three of us are clapping and jumping so much it’s a wonder we don’t bring down the balcony.
Yard lifts his sleepy head, yawning at us in confusion as his tail thumps against the chaise.
“I have to go,” I tell them. “Forgive me for running out on our—”
“Go, go.” Jean-Pierre shoos me. “Don’t worry, cher. We’ll break out your twenty-year tawny port and clean up.”
“Clean up the port, or clean up the dishes?” I lift a teasing eyebrow.
“We can do both, yeah?” He blinks innocently.
I squeeze his hand and then squeeze Eva’s too. “Y’all are the best. And in case I haven’t told you recently, I love you both to pieces.”
When I go to duck through the open window, Eva stops me. “So have you decided? About Luc and Cash, I mean?”
Luc and Cash. Luc and Cash.
“I’m hoping as time goes by, I’ll know what to do.”
Eva and Jean-Pierre exchange a glance.
“Okay, you two have got to stop doing that.” I glower at them. “What? What are y’all thinking?”
“Aw, honey.” Eva places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “We’re thinking things don’t usually work that way.”
Chapter Seventy-five
______________________________________
Luc
Nothing eats at us like the things we need to say but don’t.
My dad used to tell me that. Although, when he said it, it was usually on account of he was aiming to get me to confess I’d accidentally snapped the tip off his favorite fishing pole, or I’d forgotten to bring in the bag of dog food from the porch and instead left it out for the raccoons to pilfer.
Still, it strikes a particular chord now. I need to own up to what’s going on with Maggie. After that kiss the other night, two things have become clear. One, despite her whole wait until Cash is better mumbo jumbo, she wants me. Two, if she wants me, I’m aiming to do everything in my power to make sure she has me. And three, given the history between her and Cash, I can’t keep that from him. Even if he claims not to care. Even if he insists he’s stopped wanting her for himself.
Maybe I’m thinking so hard he can hear my thoughts. After I shove my cell phone into my pocket and tell him Maggie is on her way over, he gives me a narrowed-eyed look. “You okay, man?”
I blow out a deep breath, ready to confess everything. But before I can form the words, he continues, “Because I know you. It doesn’t matter what the law says. You’re going to brood.”
Oh, right. Not, am I okay when it comes to Maggie? But, am I okay about what I was forced to do to George Sullivan? Am I okay being a man who’s taken lives? Am I going to be able to keep the candle of humanity burning at the center of my soul?
Looking down at the toes of my work boots, which are stained with paint and covered in sawdust, I admit, “There’s comfort in knowing I wasn’t given a choice.”
I’ve gone over it a million times. It was him or us. And for me (as for most folks, I imagine), that makes it a no-brainer. “Of course, until my dying day, I’ll always wish it coulda gone another way,” I add.
He throws an arm around my shoulders, and for a while we sip our beers in silence. We’ve settled onto his stoop after another hard day’s work on the cottage. (Which is our nightly ritual.) But tonight I convinced him to share a beer with me instead of guzzling the Gentleman Jack. At this point, I reckon any little bit helps.
The smell of burned ozone drifts toward us on the breeze. A warning that a rare winter thunderstorm is headed our way. Habit has me re
aching for my phone to check the Doppler on my weather app, but before I can, Cash asks, “How’s Maggie doing with it all?”
The mention of her name reminds me of my earlier contemplations. Funny how my stomach can sink at the thought of George Sullivan and then turn around and soar at the thought of her. From despair to delight in two seconds flat.
“She’s all right, I think.” Then I shake my head and frown at the bottle in my hand. “Although, she’s been so worried about the charges against me, I don’t reckon she’s had much time to process.”
“Pssht.” He slices a hand through the air. “Process, shmocess. That shit’s overrated. Best just to put the bad stuff behind you and focus on the good stuff.”
I twist my lips. “Not everyone has your talent for living in denial.”
“It’s not denial,” he insists. “It’s the unique ability not to dwell.”
“Pah-tay-toe, pah-tah-toe.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He chuckles. Then, “So, what’s going on with the two of you anyway? I’ve noticed things are a little…tense. Maggie’s shoulders ride up around her ears when she’s around you now. Did something happen?”
Right. Okay. So here goes.
Except, before I answer his questions, I need to pose one of my own. “Are you really all right with only being Maggie May’s friend? I mean, if she started dating someone else, you don’t reckon you’d be jealous?”
“That’d be pretty hypocritical of me after what happened New Year’s Eve, don’t you think?” He absently picks at the label on his Abita.
I frown. “You mean how you were hanging all over Scarlet What’s Her Face at Miss Bea’s party?”
“I mean how Maggie caught me doing Scarlet What’s Her Face up against that wall to the left of the barn door.” He gestures over his shoulder with his beer, indicating the inside of the house.
My mind blanks. It feels like a sharp fingernail drags up my spine, making me sit up straighter. “What?”
A line forms between his eyebrows. “Didn’t she tell you? Figured that was why she was at your place that night when Sullivan arrived. Thought she ran straight to you to complain about what an ass I am. Although, in my defense, I didn’t mean for her to walk in on me nailing Scarlet. I was in the privacy of my own house, for fuck’s sake. And—”
Coldness starts at the top of my head and moves downward, as if all my blood is draining out through the soles of my feet.
“Hang on a second.” I lift a finger. “Are you saying Maggie May caught you making love to that woman?”
He snorts. “‘Making love’ is a bit of a stretch. We were screwing like bunnies.”
“For the love of living, Cash.” At this point, I’m not sure who I’m more upset with. Maggie for lying to me. Or Cash for being…well, himself.
“I know.” His expression is stricken. “It was awful. I’ll never forget the look on her face.”
“Whose face? Maggie May’s or Scarlet’s?”
“Maggie’s, of course. Don’t be a prick.”
Yeah, right. I’m the prick. “So what happened to keeping our noses clean and our dicks dry?” I manage, even though my jaw is clenched tight around the words.
He makes a face. “You know what they say. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“Hey, y’all!” Maggie calls from the corner, a huge grin splitting her face.
This might be the first time that seeing her hasn’t made me want to sing with pleasure. Instead, it takes everything I have not to howl with pain.
“Is this the best day ever, or what?” she asks, skipping toward us and happily climbing the stoop steps. When she stops in front of me, I realize, yep, I’m more mad at her.
How could she do that? How could she lead me to think she—
I don’t finish the thought, because her expression suddenly clouds. “Not that there’s anything to cheer about George being gone,” she’s quick to say. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s the best day ever because you’re officially free and clear, Luc!” Her grin returns. “Which means all is right with the world.”
She bends to squeeze my neck and her nearness acts on my mind the way it always does, blanking it, turning it to mush.
“See?” she whispers in my ear, her cheek flush against my own, “Good things do happen to good people.”
If she notices I’m not hugging her back, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she straightens and asks, “What about the other potential charges? Like the obstructing justice by not reporting Dean’s death to the police?”
I can’t answer her on account of I’m doing my best to grind my molars to dust.
Cash lifts an eyebrow at me and then answers on my behalf. “Abelman said that didn’t hold any water, and no prosecutors were willing to take it on.”
“I can’t believe it.” Maggie shakes her head in happy wonder. “It’s actually over. We’ve come to the last link in the chain. Mark your calendars, gents. From here on, today will officially be celebrated as our independence day!”
Tipping back my beer, I let the soothing taste of hops and barley slide down my throat. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do jack shit to douse the fire burning in my heart.
Frowning slightly, she glances from me to Cash. “Am I missing something?”
No. But I was. That night when she sat on my couch and asked me to kiss her, I was missing the whole story. Missing the whys and the hows of her sudden arrival, because all I wanted was to fall into her arms and drown in her lips.
I’m such a fool.
Cash watches me closely, waiting for me to say something. When it’s obvious I’ve lost the ability to speak, he gestures to the brown paper sack clutched in Maggie’s hand. “What’s in the bag?”
She wiggles her eyebrows and brandishes it above her head like it’s the Golden Snitch. “Now, I know a situation like this usually calls for a magnum of champagne, but I’ve got something even better.” She pulls out a perfectly browned rice fritter and offers it to Cash.
He eyes the treat suspiciously. “What is it?”
She blinks at him. “What is it? Calas, silly.”
When he scrunches up his nose, her mouth falls open. “Are you telling me that all this time you’ve spent in New Orleans and you’ve never had calas?” She glances at me. “I can’t believe it. Obviously, we’ve been derelict in our duty as locals.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her. Instead, I stare out at the street.
From the corner of my eye, I see that she frowns slightly, but then shakes her head as if she must be imagining things and explains to Cash, “Slaves brought the recipe with them from the rice-growing regions of Africa, and when the Spanish ruled the city, the slave women would cook them up and sell them on the streets on their day off from work. Apparently, the Spanish had laws that said slave owners had to allow their slaves one day of rest a week. They also had laws that said a slave had to be allowed to buy their freedom, so the slave women used their calas money to do exactly that. Cool, huh?”
She blinks. “Not slavery, of course. I mean the history of calas are cool and—” She shakes her head. “Oh, never mind. Y’all know what I mean. Anyway, Auntie June loves them. She claims they’re better than beignets.” Wiggling the fritter under Cash’s nose, she tempts, “Here. Tell me how you think they measure up.”
“Hard pass.” He shoves her hand away. “I’m sticking with the booze and the beer tonight.”
Her mouth forms a moue of disapproval. “You’ve been sticking with the booze and the beer too many nights from the looks of you.”
“Your concern is duly noted.” He salutes her with his beer.
She sighs exasperatedly, but slaps on a bright smile when she offers me the fried treat. Powdered sugar falls on the step in front of me. “Luc? You know you want it.”
“Actually”—I find my voice, but I can’t keep the bitterness from it—“I don’t.” Setting aside my beer, I stand.
She drops the fritter back into the b
ag and frowns up at me, then down at Cash, and then back up at me. “For a couple of guys who finally have things going their way, neither of you seems very happy.”
Cash tilts his head back, giving me a long look. Then he shrugs and says, “You’re right. This is a night for celebration. Why don’t we pretend to be tourists and go sing karaoke at the Cat’s Meow?”
“Oh my gosh!” She does a hop of excitement. “We always talked about doing karaoke, but you were too shy to get up onstage, Luc, and—oooh! Oooh! We could sing “Bootylicious”! Y’all can do Kelly’s and Michelle’s parts, and I, of course, will do Beyoncé’s part. You know I love me some Queen B!”
“Y’all go on without me,” I say.
“What?” She blinks incredulously. “We can’t go without you. It’s your big news we’re celebrating. Geez! Get with the program!” She playfully slaps my arm and my jaw clenches even tighter. That quick, perfunctory touch was still enough to make my knees weak.
“Near as I can tell”—I crane my head back to study the black swirl of the sky—“the rain’s gonna start soon. Which means I needa run on home so I can get past that low-water crossing before it floods.”
“Are you serious?” She gapes at me.
Instead of answering, I brush past her and start down the steps. I haven’t reached the sidewalk when she stops me by grabbing my hand. I look down at her fingers, so pale against my own. I can feel my blood bubbling up to meet her touch.
“Is everything okay?” Her brow is beetled, and her eyes are fringed by dark lashes that cast sooty shadows against her cheeks.
Letting out a pained breath, I do something I try never to do. I lie.
“Sure. What could be wrong?”
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 9