Chapter Eighty-one
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Maggie
When you burn a bridge, it’s not over. You simply have to learn how to swim.
That’s what I’ve decided to do with Luc. Swim. Go with the flow. Stop fighting the inexorable pull of the current.
The last five days have been crazy hectic. I’ve worked three doubles so Chrissy can help her husband with the dealership. Which means I’m functioning on six hours of sleep every day. Considering I’m a regular eight-hour-minimum girl, that means I’m coasting on fumes. Even so, every morning before opening the bar, I’ve made an effort to stop by Cash’s place with warm beignets and hot coffees in hand.
Cash thinks I’ve become nosy now that the work is near completion. And while that’s partly true, the real reason I’ve been going by is so I can make sure he’s eating at least something during the day, but also because it affords me the opportunity to spend time with Luc.
Two birds with one stone, if you know what I mean.
You see, I’ve decided to take everyone’s advice and let this thing between us unfold however it will. Of course, there’s a caveat I’m not sure he’ll agree to, but I hope he will. Because it’s the only solution I can come up with that has any chance of sparing hurt feelings all the way around.
This morning, when Luc took me on a tour of the cottage, I opened my mouth to tell him about my plan, even though the thought of starting something with him still scares the bejeezus out of me because what if it doesn’t work out? Then what? I know he says we’ll always be friends, but how can he be sure? If life has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is certain. But before I could say anything, our hands accidently brushed and those sparks Auntie June talked about? Well, they nearly set my hair on fire.
By the time I’d recovered, Luc had moved away, giving me the rundown on what they still had left to do on the house.
“Do you have an ETA on the final product?” I asked him, hoping he couldn’t hear how dry my throat had become.
“Two weeks.” He glanced around with pride.
He’s anticipating tying everything up with a bow so he and Cash can move on with their lives. But it makes me sad to think of the Creole cottage being finished. It feels like the end of an era.
In fact, a lot of things are feeling like endings instead of beginnings. Cash’s house. The last item on our list of excursions. And…me and Cash.
Yep. In case my decision to give Luc a chance didn’t make it clear, I’ve finally let go of the notion that Cash and I are meant to be. Finally admitted that what we had was sweet and wonderful—and it will always hold a special place in my heart—but it’s over. It’s been over for quite some time. And, just like he said, the only reason I didn’t see it before was because I was looking backward instead of forward. Focusing on what was instead of what is and what could be. But my eyes are firmly affixed ahead of me now. And I see.
What brought about all these grand epiphanies, you ask?
Simple. It was Luc’s poem.
That beautiful, devastating poem.
Seeing the words “loving her has made me a fool” broke my heart in two. And then when I read that last line? “Time to let go of my baby”? My vision tunneled, and I broke out in a cold sweat.
I would never wish ill on anyone, but Chrissy’s husband’s broken ankle couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Inundated with a gazillion swirling emotions, I needed an excuse to leave Luc’s place. To get a hold of myself. To be alone with my whirlwind thoughts. And on the drive into town, as the miles separating us grew, it all came clear.
I want Luc.
I love him.
And I’ll never know if I’m falling in love with him until I take everyone’s advice and give him a chance and…speak of the devil.
I texted and said I’d meet him and Cash in front of M.S. Rau Antiques. Now I think it might’ve been better had I waited inside. Then I wouldn’t have to watch him walking toward me with that easy saunter and those mile-wide shoulders.
As Auntie June would say, He’s fit as a butcher’s dog.
I swear my ovaries spontaneously emit two dozen eggs. Then I glance at Cash, walking beside him, and the poor organs shrivel.
He looks…not bad. Cash could never look bad. His bone structure and coloring won’t allow it. But he’s too skinny. The scar across his forehead still looks red and irritated. And his eyes are pinched, like today the pain is getting the better of him.
As if to prove my point, he reaches into his back pocket for his flask, and a little bit of me dies. I hate how much he’s suffering. And I hate that there’s nothing Luc or I or anyone else can seem to do for him.
The only comfort I can find is in the thought that, with the cottage so close to completion, rehab will—hopefully—be right around the corner. I’ve spent a lot of hours online reading everything I can on alternative pain treatments. I know way more about acupuncture, hypnosis, guided meditation, and relaxation therapy than I ever wanted to. Once Luc is clean and sober, I’m thinking we’ll try them all. And I’m crossing my fingers one of them will work.
“Beautiful day,” Luc says when they join me on the sidewalk.
His smooth, deep voice usually works as a balm on my frayed nerves. But not today. Today it only makes me more nervous. And without thinking, I go up on tiptoe and hug him for a second.
Okay, it’s probably more like two seconds, possibly five. But in my defense, that’s how long it takes me to remember his decree about no hand-holding or ear-tugging or kissing until I make my choice. He didn’t mention hugging, but I suppose it was implied.
Letting him go, I step back. Since I don’t know what to say, I stare at his Adam’s apple like a mute idiot. It’s a particularly nice Adam’s apple as far as Adam’s apples go, and when he swallows, I track its path as it travels up the column of his tanned throat. When it bounces back into place, I’m jogged out of my momentary trance.
Despite the heat stinging my cheeks, I force myself to lift my eyes.
Luc’s tall, so my gaze has to travel a ways up before I can find his expression. When I do, I discover a fond smile waiting for me instead of a rebuking frown. It takes some effort, but I smile in return. Unfortunately, the right side of my mouth twitches down.
Why the heck am I so nervous? Around Luc, of all people. I mean, just because I’ve decided to give this thing between us a chance doesn’t mean he’s a different person.
And yet…he feels different.
To hide my jitters, I fold Cash into my embrace. His beard stubble is scratchy against my cheek, and his shoulders are bony, but otherwise he smells the same, feels the same, is the same. Which means it’s me who’s changed. Because that special thrill of being in his arms is…
I concentrate and hang on a second longer just to make sure.
Yep. It’s gone.
Where once my bones would turn to liquid, now all I feel is warm affection. Where once my heart would pound, now I don’t even have to catch my breath.
There’s relief, but also sadness, in that. In finally, completely, wholeheartedly letting go of my young girl’s foolish dream.
“You’d think it’s been nine months instead of nine hours since she’s seen us.” Cash pats my back with a wide, warm palm. “You okay, Maggie?”
“Of course.” I push the words past the lump in my throat and step back. “So what do you say, boys? Should we finish the list?”
Cash studies my face for a second, his eyes narrowed slightly. I know my cheeks are red. I know my eyes are overly bright. But, bless him, he doesn’t comment on either.
“Lead the way.” He motions to M.S. Rau’s front door.
Now, let me disabuse you of any notion that M.S. Rau Antiques is your average antique store. There are no shelves filled with dusty heirlooms. No smell of old wood or rusty metal. Instead, everywhere you look there are jewels of untold value, stately statuary, and antique furniture that looks like it belonged to royal
ty—rumor has it, some of it actually did.
Once the three of us are standing inside the door, Cash gives me a wide-eyed holy crap look.
I chuckle and warn him, “Don’t touch anything.”
“No shit,” he agrees.
A man dressed in a striped bow tie greets us, introducing himself as Peter, and I tell him we’re here for the tour of the back room.
“Very good.” He does a little bow that seems vaguely European. “But first, let me take you around the main showroom.”
He waves for us to follow him and then spends a good half hour pointing out some of the more interesting pieces in the collection. There’s a gold-and-diamond-encrusted egg that, when you press a button, opens up and a mechanical bird rises from the halves, flaps its wings and tail, and then disappears back inside the egg. Peter tells us it could be ours for the low, low price of $350,000. Gulp.
Then he shows us a ring bearing a nearly fifteen-carat Burma sapphire. The gem’s blue is so deep and rich, so vibrant it’s almost hypnotic. I find myself falling into it. Getting lost in it. Fancying it’s spelled or cursed or was once the magical amulet of a Burmese shaman.
“That’s some serious bling,” Cash murmurs.
“If you wish to walk out with it today,” Peter says with a wry smile, “we can get the paperwork started.”
“Sure,” Cash jokes. “How much should I make the check for?”
“Nine hundred thousand dollars should just about cover it.”
“Holy shit!”
Instead of getting offended, Peter chuckles and nods. “Holy shit, indeed.”
We’re shown a Tiffany chandelier that costs more than I make in three years. A complete set of porcelain dishes once owned by the 8th Duke of Hamilton. And the opera glasses President Abraham Lincoln used on the night he was assassinated. The actual opera glasses.
Overhead lights illuminate everything, making the whole store sparkle. Our footsteps are muffled by tight pile carpeting. And I swear the smell of history hangs in the air, dense and a bit cloying.
“This place is more a fine arts museum than an antique store,” Luc whispers to me, being careful to keep his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his elbows tucked in tight.
I don’t blame him. I’ve never been more cognizant of my body and the space it occupies, and I’m half his size. I fully suspect this place follows the rule of “If you break it, you buy it.” And Lord knows, I can’t afford anything in here.
“Now,” Peter says, “are you ready for the pièce de résistance?”
“It gets better?” Cash blinks.
Peter bows again, looking pleased with himself. “Follow me.”
He motions us to a wall that’s been wallpapered to look like fully stocked bookshelves. I miss the brass handle protruding from the center of the wall until he grabs it. Then, with a twist of his wrist, he opens a secret door.
I use the term door loosely. It’s about six inches thick, backed by steel, and is more like the opening to a vault.
“After you.” Peter motions for us to precede him. Then he guides us through three stories of museum-quality paintings by Monet, Renoir, and Norman Rockwell. He points out Napoleon’s death mask, an actual Enigma machine, and the entire bedroom set of King Farouk, the last king of Egypt.
By the time we head back to the main floor two hours later, darkness has fallen, and my head is spinning.
“I can’t believe I’ve lived here my whole life and never realized this was all smack dab in the middle of Royal Street,” I say.
“It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets.” Peter holds the front door wide and thanks us for stopping by.
Out on the sidewalk, under the undulating glow of the gas lamps, Cash uncaps his flask and takes a healthy pull. It’s the first one he’s had since entering the store.
I notice his hands are shaking. Luc notices, too, and his frown speaks volumes.
“Well, that’s that.” Cash recaps his flask. “We did it. The list is officially complete. Should we go celebrate with dinner?”
“Can’t.” I shake my head, looking at my watch. “My shift starts in fifteen minutes.”
“Sometimes I forget you’re a working stiff.” His mouth twists.
I chuckle. “Sometimes I wish I could forget I’m a working stiff.”
“Well at least let us walk you to work,” he says.
As we make our way down Royal, we’re quiet, still reeling from the riches we saw. I drop a dollar into the upturned hat of a street musician playing bluegrass on an acoustic guitar and sidestep a drunk who staggers by us. The irony of New Orleans being home to the number-one-ranked hospital for liver transplants isn’t lost on me.
“Do you think one lifetime is enough?” Cash asks after we’ve gone a few blocks. He’s staring up at the marble and terra-cotta Beaux arts building that houses the Louisiana Supreme Court. It’s a massive structure that looks out of place among the quaint buildings and cottages of the Vieux Carré. Folks in The Quarter refer to it as the “white elephant.”
“This is a question for science-fiction writers,” Luc grumbles.
“I’m serious,” Cash insists. “Think of it. How many of your dreams will be left unfulfilled? How many of your goals will be left unreached? Is one lifetime ever enough for anyone? Or do we all wish for more? More chances? More time?”
Luc is right. Cash has developed a strange fascination with death. He tries to couch it in arguments for life, but I’m not buying it.
Does he think this head injury is going to kill him? Or his drinking? Is there something he’s not telling us?
A strange sense of foreboding washes over me, making the hairs on my arms lift. I decide to bring up the subject of our intervention with Luc sooner rather than later. We need to get a plan in place. That way, we can implement it at the drop of a hat should we need to.
“I think the beauty of life is that it’s finite,” I tell Cash. “If we had all the time in the world, we’d become apathetic about the whole thing.”
“So you’re saying the only thing that motivates us to do anything worthwhile is the knowledge that we have an expiration date?”
I shrug. “In a nutshell.”
“Huh.” He thinks on that for a bit. Then he grins and it reminds me of the old Cash, before the brain injury and the booze. “So I guess Drake was right. YOLO, baby.”
I laugh. “Leave it to a Canadian rapper to cut to the chase.”
“Is this line of questioning on account of Rick’s funeral today, or is it just the new you?” Luc asks Cash.
“Wait.” I stop and frown at Cash. “Rick’s funeral was today? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone and—”
“Why would you have gone when I didn’t go?” Cash interrupts.
“You didn’t go?” I turn to Luc for confirmation. He shakes his head.
“I don’t like going to the funerals of people I like,” Cash says. “Why would I go to one for someone I hate? And before you say something about it being because he was my dad”—he points at me when I open my mouth—“remember that’s not true. He was only my sperm donor.”
“Right.” I nod. “Okay, then. So…that’s that, I guess.” One more ending with a solid period behind it.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish.” Cash takes out his flask and lets a long stream of whiskey pour into his mouth. After he swallows, he adds, “I hope he’s burning in hell alongside George Sullivan.”
I wince at his words. I’ve been having nightmares about the night Luc shot the police superintendent. Too often I’ve been waking up with the sound of a gunshot ringing in my ears and the sight of Sullivan’s bloody chest imprinted on the backs of my eyelids.
Just like Dean’s death—or what I thought was Dean’s death—the experience replays itself in my unconscious mind despite my knowing that what happened to Sullivan was justified. I wish there was a way I could make it go away. But I know from experience that it’s something I’ll just have to learn to live with. Another unf
ortunate consequence of life.
When we turn onto Conti Street, I can see the bar up ahead. The doors and windows are open. Two tourists and a few locals, including Earl, have pulled chairs onto the sidewalk to enjoy the warm night. And music from the jukebox spills out into the street.
It doesn’t matter how many times I see Bon Temps Rouler, and it doesn’t matter how dark my thoughts are, my bar always brings a smile to my face. Then I hear Earl say to one of the tourists, “You don’t know dipshit from apple butter,” and my smile turns upside down.
“Earl!” I stalk in his direction. “You better be nice to my patrons or I’ll have to jerk a knot in your tail!”
He lifts his hands and blinks as if to say, What did I do?
I give him the evil eye and he chuckles. “So where y’all been this evening?” he asks. “I heard Freddy Four Fingers is blowing down in Pirate’s Alley. Did you go give him a listen?”
Freddy Four Fingers has, you guessed it, four fingers on one hand—he’s missing his thumb. But he still manages to be one of NOLA’s favorite trumpeters. And he likes to give impromptu performances every now and again. Tonight, apparently, he’s set up shop on the cobblestone footpath that runs along the Uptown side of St. Louis Cathedral.
“We’ve been to M.S. Rau Antiques,” I tell Earl. “We got a tour of the back room.”
He whistles, his handlebar mustache fluttering. “Every time I walk by that place, I’m reminded I can’t buy a hummingbird on a string for a nickel.”
“You and me both.” I nod at the tourists, who are listening avidly to our conversation, no doubt charmed by Earl’s talent for turning a phrase.
Cash announces, “Got to hit the head,” before disappearing inside.
After he’s gone, I glance at Luc, motioning for him to follow me a few steps up the block so we can have a little privacy. He frowns, but doesn’t hesitate to fall into step beside me.
I missed my opening with him this morning, but no time like the present, right? Okay, here goes. I open my mouth and am surprised butterflies don’t come flying out since my stomach is full of them. But not only do no winged creatures emerge, no words do either.
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 15