Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3

by Julie Ann Walker

  I clear my throat and try again. This time a whole sentence manages to make it past my teeth. “Do you have plans for tomorrow night?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “None that I recall. You have something in mind?”

  “Could I…” I have to stop and clear my throat again.

  He’s Luc! I remind myself. The same ol’ Luc you’ve known forever! Except he’s not. He’s more.

  Something Auntie June said as I was leaving Aunt Bea’s house last Saturday echoes inside my head. Everyone is afraid of messing up and getting hurt or hurting those we love. But there comes a time when you have to take off the training wheels and ride.

  Okay, Auntie June. Here goes nothing.

  “Could I maybe come out to your place for dinner?”

  Chapter Eighty-two

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  All secrets reveal themselves. If you give them time.

  That’s what I’ve done all evening. Given Maggie time to get around to saying whatever it is she came out here to say. Played along during dinner while she chattered like a squirrel about her aunts and the bar and the latest shenanigans of one “Royal Earl” Greene. And I tried not to let my shock and skepticism show when she told me about the heart-to-heart she had with Violet.

  Now we’ve taken our coffees out on the front porch, and she’s fallen silent. I reckon that’s a good thing. Maybe it means she’s worked herself around to the point of her visit.

  Warming my hands on my mug, I watch the fog swirl over the still water of the bayou. It’s slow and sinuous, seemingly alive and eerily purposeful. Somewhere in the distance, a big bull alligator bellows, letting the swamp know who rules the roost around these parts. And overhead, my wind chimes tinkle when they’re pushed by the delicate fingers of the breeze.

  I’m not sure if Maggie shivers on account of the chill in the air or the uncanny atmosphere, but I set my mug on the railing and grab a quilt from inside. I wrap it around her shoulders, and she gifts me with a smile that could light up a room. “How do you always know what I need? Are you a mind reader or something?”

  “Apparently not.” I retake my seat. “If I was, I’d know what brought you out here.” I take a sip of coffee, letting the smooth liquid warm me from the inside out. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to fish or cut bait.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “I’ve never understood why anyone would choose cutting bait over fishing.”

  “Can’t have one without the other.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she admits. “And I suppose it’s a far sight more polite than what Auntie June likes to say.”

  “What’s that? Shit or get off the pot?”

  She touches her nose and then points at me. “That’s the one.”

  I chuckle and picture Miss June. She’s the epitome of an old Southern granny what with the bun and the flowery housedresses. But underneath her soft exterior is a disposition as tough as a one-eared alley cat and a heart as tender and sweet as watermelon wine.

  “I love that woman,” I say affectionately.

  Maggie chuffs out a laugh. “Everyone loves Auntie June. There’s just something about her.”

  I slide her a look. “Whatever it is, it must run in the family.”

  Something flares in her eyes before she glances away, staring into the darkness of the swamp. “We need to plan our intervention for Cash,” she says quietly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s starting to look like poop on parade.”

  A long, silent breath escapes me.

  I’d hoped after her early morning deliveries of coffee and beignets, after her shy smiles and sweet words, after that hug in front of M.S. Rau Antiques, that she was finally ready to tell me she realizes how good we are together and that we should give this thing between us a chance.

  But no. She came to talk about Cash. With her, it’s always about Cash.

  When will I learn?

  An ache settles behind my breastbone. “I reckon we should do it two weeks from today,” I tell her.

  She frowns. “That’s oddly specific.”

  “The house will be finished by then, and that Saturday is when we’re supposed to watch the Krewe of Iris roll through town. Beer and beads and bedazzled sunglasses might be just the ticket to put him in a receptive mood.”

  She considers this, and I have the oddest urge to rub away the line between her eyebrows. Instead, I grip my mug harder.

  “Okay.” She eventually nods. “Two weeks it is.” And then on a breathy sigh, “Sweet Lord, when we were teenagers did you ever think it would come to this?”

  “When we were teenagers, I thought you and Cash would be long married with a whole passel of kids. And I thought I would be writing songs for Harry Connick Jr. Life never turns out the way we expect.”

  She accepts this universal truth by saluting me with her coffee mug. Then, “Have you looked into the programs the VA offers?”

  “Yeah. And I wish I could say I was impressed, but I’d be lying.” How a country with so much wealth can give so little to the men and women who fight for it I’ll never understand. “So I checked out some nonmilitary treatment facilities. The one I like best is up near the Kisatchie National Forest.”

  “Woodlawn?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “I’ve heard it’s crazy-expensive. Will his insurance cover that?”

  I take another drink and try to think of a way to avoid her question.

  “Luc?” she prompts.

  “I’ve already made arrangements with ’em,” I say vaguely.

  “Which means you’re going to pay for it?”

  I shrug. “I have a nest egg saved. It’s not a big deal.”

  She lets her head fall back, staring at the porch’s ceiling. In the typical Southern custom, it’s painted haint blue, a hue somewhere between turquoise and seafoam. Not that I believe in the old tales that swear the color is capable of keeping restless spirits from entering a house, but I do believe in tradition.

  Besides, it’s pretty.

  “Well, I’ve got a nest egg too,” she says.

  “No.” I shake my head. “You don’t have to—”

  “I know I don’t have to,” she interrupts, hitting me with a penetrating look. “But I want to. I need to. He’s my friend too, you know.”

  And in spite of the chemistry she and I share, she wants him to be more. Still. Always.

  I have to keep reminding myself of that so I never get my hopes up again.

  “All right.” I dip my chin. “If that’s what you wanna do, I’m not gonna stop ya.”

  “Good,” she says decisively, and then we fall silent, listening to the chatter of a nearby raccoon as it forages for food. Even in the winter, the swamp has a deep, green scent. And it’s almost like you can taste the life in it.

  “Does it ever bother you being here after…” She trails off and starts gnawing on a hangnail.

  “After what? Sullivan’s death?” I finish for her.

  She nods, her eyes too wide.

  “No,” I tell her honestly. “This ol’ shack has seen a lot more love and laughter than it’s ever seen death. When I’m here, I’m reminded of the former, not the latter. Why? Does it bother you?”

  “I thought it would. I mean…” She swallows. “I’ve been having dreams about it. That night.”

  “That’s normal.” I nod. “But the good news is, it’ll happen less and less. Then one day, you’ll realize it’s been months since you’ve had a nightmare.”

  She watches me quietly for a while. Eventually, she asks, “But it never goes away completely, does it?”

  “No,” I tell her honestly. “It’s like that line in Les Miserables. ‘Every blade has two edges; he who wounds with one wounds himself with the other.’ It’s impossible to kill someone, or witness someone being killed, without suffering psychological scars. And they’re the kind you carry with you forever. The trick is knowing when t
o ask for help in dealing with them. Have you…thought of talking to someone about it?”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “A professional, I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.” She looks into her mug. “And I don’t think I need to. It’s not like it haunts me or anything. I don’t feel a whole heck of a lot of remorse now that he’s dead. Not after what he came here to do to us. But sometimes I’m ashamed that I don’t feel more guilty, you know? Is that crazy?”

  “Given the situation,” I tell her, “I reckon that’s pretty normal. Still, if it ever starts to feel like it’s too much or too heavy, promise me you’ll go see someone.”

  “I will,” she swears. Then, “What about you? How do you deal with it?”

  “I spend a lot of time thinking on it. Going back over everything, trying to figure out if there was anything I coulda done differently.”

  “There wasn’t,” she says adamantly.

  “I know. That’s the whole point. When I come to the conclusion that I handled it the only way I could, it allows me to sleep at night. But, like you, I still dream. There’s no escaping that.”

  She nods. “I noticed you washed the pier. How in the world did you manage to get the blood out?”

  “It’s amazing what a good power washer can do,” I tell her.

  After that, the night closes around us, and I wonder (not for the first time since I’ve been back) how I ever spent ten years living away from the water’s edge. This place, where two worlds meet and create a marriage of wet and dry, solid and liquid. Two dimensions that manage to bow to each other while still vying for supremacy.

  Life in the swamp is a slow, steady tug-of-war.

  That’s what I love about it.

  When Maggie drains the last of her coffee, I reckon she’s on her way out, having said all she came to say. So I’m more than a little shocked when she blurts, “I’ve chosen.”

  “Pardon?”

  Her eyes seem to take up her whole face when she stares at me. “You told me I need to choose. I have.”

  Even though I know what her choice is, my heart still hammers against my ribs. I almost kick myself for forcing her into this position. I say almost on account of I can’t bring myself to entirely regret it. At least now I’ll never have to wonder what if.

  “You don’t have to say the words,” I tell her quietly when her lips start to tremble. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. Out-and-out rejecting me like this has got to be killing her. “I get it. This thing between you and Cash isn’t over. It never was. And whatever momentary madness grabbed hold of you on New Year’s Eve…”

  My words trail off when her eyebrows knit together and the corners of her mouth slam down. It’s hard to believe such a sweet face can scrunch into such a severe scowl.

  She shakes her head. “I choose you, you big idiot.”

  I. Can’t. Move.

  Can’t. Breathe.

  “But I’m absolutely terrified.” She glances down into her empty coffee cup. “I’m terrified that we’ll try, and it won’t work out, and then, despite what you say, it’ll be bye-bye friendship. I don’t know if I could handle that, Luc. Losing you once was bad enough. Losing you twice could be the end of me.”

  I don’t trust my voice to come out as anything more than a wheeze, so I swallow and take another hasty sip of coffee. It helps. But not much. My words still sound strangled when I say, “Aren’t you still friends with Cash?”

  One of her shoulders twitches. “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts. If there’s one thing that’s true beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s that you and me, we’re meant to share our lives one way or the other. It’s like the sky being blue or Earth being round. It is, Maggie May. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

  She searches my eyes. I make sure the truth is in them. Still, her voice is a bare whisper when she says, “You promise?”

  Reaching over, I take her hand and press it against my chest. Against my heart. That silly organ that has always been hers.

  Me. Me! She chose me!

  Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?

  If so, I never want to wake up.

  “I swear it on my daddy’s grave,” I promise her. “No matter what, I’ll always be your friend.”

  She gnaws on her bottom lip and, again, stares down at her cup. “There’s a caveat.”

  My grip on her hand instinctively tightens. When I feel her bones rub together, I make myself let go. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “I don’t want to tell Cash,” she blurts, and blood pounds in my ears.

  She catches the stark look on my face and hastily adds, “But not for the reason you’re thinking. Not because I’m still harboring any hope that he and I will get back together. I just…” She lifts her hands and lets them fall. “I feel bad for him, Luc. He’s dealing with so much. His head injury. His drinking. His father’s death. Even if he claims not to care that Rick is gone, it has to be weighing on his mind, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes are beseeching. Even if I could say no to her words, I could never say no to those eyes.

  “If things work out between us, then of course we’ll tell him.” She places her hand over her heart, a silent pledge. “But why put undue strain on him for something that may or may not turn into something?”

  Oh, it’s going to turn into something. I’ll make damn sure of that.

  “Okay,” I say when she opens her mouth to continue pleading her case.

  She blinks myopically. “Okay? Just like that? You don’t want to hear more arguments? I’ve been practicing a whole slew of them.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “All I want is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To ask you out on a date.”

  Chapter Eighty-three

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Sometimes getting what you want isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  For months, all I’ve wanted is for Luc and Maggie to admit to themselves and each other what I’ve known all along. But now that they have—and believe me, they have; it’s there in their eyes anytime they look at each other—there’s a…a…loneliness to it that I didn’t count on. I’m still here, but it’s like a part of me is gone.

  The part of me that was an integral part of them.

  “This weekend, Aunt Bea is hosting her annual masquerade ball to celebrate Carnival season,” Maggie says, taking a bite of beignet. “Y’all are invited, of course.”

  Powdered sugar lands on her chin, and when Luc reaches over to thumb it away, she smiles at him and then blushes prettily. “Thanks.” Her voice is rough.

  I have to look away.

  Thought I’d be better at this. But deep down, I’m a selfish bastard. Which I guess goes to show there’s a lot more of Rick in me than I like admitting—may he not rest in peace.

  Even the bright sunshine and the lively chatter of the diners at Café Du Monde can’t lighten my dark mood. And the sheen of powdered sugar that tends to dust everything in the place, something I usually find charming, today only irritates. Every time I shuffle my feet, the soles of my boots stick to the floor.

  “I reckon now that we’re back to stay, Cash and I should invest in tuxedos.” Luc blows over the top of his café au lait. “With as many celebrations as your aunt throws, they’ll pay for themselves soon enough. What’d’ya say, Cash? Wanna go shopping this week? We could head over to Rubensteins and let ’em fit us up with a coupla custom numbers.”

  “I’ll stick with a rental,” I tell him, uncapping my flask and adding a generous portion of whiskey to my coffee. The buzz in my ear is almost unbearable today. It’s worse than the headache. And that’s saying something.

  He studies me with a frown and I carefully avoid his gaze. It’s getting more and more difficult to hide things from him. Soon, it’ll be all but impossible.

  “Mes amis!” Jean-Pierre appears beside our table, one hand on my shoulder, the other on Luc�
�s.

  “Well, look who got up before noon on a Sunday,” Maggie says cheerfully. “I thought you—good Lord! What happened to you?”

  I glance up to find Jean-Pierre looking like he’s gone ten rounds with a swarm of angry mosquitoes and lost. There are painful-looking red spots on his chin and cheeks. A few more run down his neck. His fedora is pulled low over his brow, but the shadow of the brim does little to hide his current affliction.

  “He went hunting for snipe and ended up atop a fire ant mound,” Eva says, materializing next to Jean-Pierre and sorrowfully shaking her head.

  “Eva!” Maggie jumps up and circles the table to hug her neck. “How’d your date go last night? You never responded to my text, so…” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  “I didn’t respond because I was too depressed once I got home,” Eva says as she and Jean-Pierre grab some empty chairs and pull them up to our table. “I think he was more interested in the idea of me than he was in me as a person. The only questions he asked me were about which famous models or celebrities I’ve met.”

  “Ugh.” Maggie retakes her seat. “Another one?”

  “It’s slim pickings out there, girl. I keep telling you. And the good ones are either taken, not interested, or…” She hooks a thumb at Jean-Pierre. “Gay.”

  “You’ll find one,” Maggie assures her. “Probably far, far away from the fashion industry.”

  “Trouble is, I’ve been working so much that industry folks are all I meet.” Eva plops down beside me. Then she continues, “I was feeling sorry for myself when I woke up this morning, so I stopped by your place hoping to convince you to come have breakfast with me. But then I remembered this was one of your standing Sunday brunches with these two fine fellows. Good morning, by the way, fine fellows.”

  “Eva, pleasure seeing you. As always.” Luc beams at her with those dimples. Like most women, she can’t help grinning back.

  “When she couldn’t get you, she settled for me.” Jean-Pierre takes the seat on the other side of Eva. “Made me come out even lookin’ like dis.” He points to his spotted face.