“Right.” Maggie gives him the once-over. “So let’s hear it. I thought you went to your grandparents’ place for a fish fry last night. How the heck did you end up hunting snipe?”
“Uncle Etienne likes ’em,” he says. “And since dey are in season, he thought we could go out and bag us a few and have Mawmaw add ’em to da cornmeal she was already doin’ da fish with.”
“Wait a minute.” I lift a hand to stop him talking. “I thought a snipe hunt was a practical joke. You know, take some city kid out into the swamp, give him a gunnysack, and tell him to use it to catch a snipe. Then he ends up running around all night long trying to find some mythical creature.”
“A snipe hunt is a practical joke,” Luc explains. “But snipes are real. They’re a marsh bird. Taste kinda like quail.”
“Huh. Well, what do you know?”
“Anyway,” Jean-Pierre goes on, “we’re out in da middle of nowhere, and all I had on was dis little ol’ pair of jeans and my wingtips.” He lifts a foot so we can all see his scuffed shoes. “Me, I was gettin’ plumb torn up by all da brush and den I found me a patch of bare earth to stand on.”
Maggie’s hand covers her mouth. “The fire ant mound.”
“Mais yeah. But I didn’t know dat on account of it was gettin’ dark.” Jean-Pierre scowls and adjusts his hat lower over his brow.
“Tell them the rest of it.” Eva is already laughing and holding her side.
“Not much to tell.” Jean-Pierre sniffs. “Me, I barely had time to shuck my clothes before the li’l bastards damn near ate me alive.” Although, when he says it, it sounds more like eht me alive. “Went runnin’, naked as da day I was born, back to Mawmaw’s house.”
“He says his granny told him she thought he’d been snacked on by Comte de Saint Germain when he came through the front door covered in bloody bites.” Eva slaps the table and wipes away a stray tear as both Luc and Maggie burst out laughing.
“Who’s Comte de Saint Whoever?” I ask. Everyone at the table seems to get the reference but me.
“He was an alchemist way back when,” Maggie explains. “He claimed to have found the elixir of life. Told everyone he was six thousand years old. It’s all well documented in the history books,” she insists when I give her a skeptical look. “Anyway, sometime around the turn of the last century, a man by the name of Jacques St. Germain who claimed to be a descendant of Comte de Saint Germain bought the house on the corner of Royal and Ursaline.”
“The big one with the red door and all the ironwork?”
“That’s the one. So the story goes, Jacques was said to be quite the ladies’ man. But one of the ladies claimed Jacques attacked her and bit her. When police went to the house to arrest him, all they found were bloodstains and empty wine bottles. Jacques was never seen again. And to this day, no one knows who lives in that house. But the taxes are always paid on time.”
“So let me guess, everyone thinks Jacques St. Germain was actually Comte de Saint Germain,” I surmise. “And it wasn’t the elixir of life he found, but vampirism.”
“You got it in one.” Maggie winks.
“You know, if there were as many vampires running around New Orleans as people claim, there wouldn’t be any of us left alive. We’d all have ended up as snacks of the undead a long time ago.”
She makes a tching noise with her teeth. “Oh ye of little imagination.”
Before I can say anything to that, her sister appears, and my improving mood takes an immediate nose dive. Haven’t seen Violet since New Year’s Eve, when we had our little tiff followed by my not-so-little confession.
“Look!” Violet says, smiling at everyone gathered around the table. When her eyes touch mine, they seem to linger for a while longer than necessary. “The gang’s all here.”
“Hey, Vee.” Maggie glances around the coffeehouse. “Are you with your Ladies Who Brunch or—”
“No, no.” Violet waves her off. “We only do that once a month. I came in to grab a coffee, and then I’m supposed to meet Aunt Bea for lunch after church lets out. I’m helping her organize the masquerade ball, and we need to talk flower arrangements. The florist ran out of the morning glories I wanted for the centerpieces, so now we have to come up with a different purple flower to go along with the yellow and green ones. I was thinking aster or gladiolus, but I want to get Aunt Bea’s opinion before I change the order and…absolutely none of you gives a damn about any of this.” She laughs, shaking her head.
A joke. Miss Humorless made a joke. It wasn’t a great one, but hey. Plus, she’s smiling. Truly smiling. And…touching Maggie’s shoulder?
What the hell is going on here?
Luc sees my frown and leans over to whisper, “They’ve had a recent come-to-Jesus talk. I’ll tell you about it later.”
I nod and listen as Maggie invites her sister to join us. To my surprise, Violet actually accepts, taking the seat across from Jean-Pierre and doing a double take when she gets a look at him.
“It’s a long story, cher,” he tells her. “Involvin’ snipe, a fire ant mound, and missin’ clothes.”
“Ah.” She nods. “So your typical Cajun Saturday night.”
Jean-Pierre grins and then winces like it hurts.
“I’ve told y’all how my night went,” Eva says, glancing between Maggie and Luc. “How did your night go? Did that recipe I gave you for blackened redfish turn out, Luc?”
I frown. “You guys had dinner together last night?”
“I told you,” Luc assures me.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did,” he insists.
Dread lands like an anvil in the bottom of my stomach.
I have been forgetting things recently. Only yesterday I couldn’t remember where I put my house keys—now that there’s furniture and appliances in the place, I try to remember to lock up. And Monday I completely blanked on a delivery of flower-bed dirt I scheduled. When the guy from the nursery arrived with a truck full of the stuff, I was at Johnny’s getting po’ boys with Luc. The dude was none too pleased he had to wait until I ran back home and unlocked the gate before he could take the dirt around back. Said it put him behind schedule for the whole day.
I tried making up for it by giving him a big tip. But if the scowl he wore as he was leaving was anything to go by, it wasn’t big enough to overcome his irritation at having his day screwed up.
“When did you tell me?” I demand of Luc now, hiding my numb hand beneath the table so no one will see it’s developing a tremor.
“As I was heading out,” he says. “You were on the phone with the guy who’s firing the replacement bricks for the courtyard and—”
“Oh, right.” I nod. I do remember him mentioning something about dinner, but I wasn’t paying much attention.
“The redfish was amazing,” Maggie gushes to Eva. “He paired it with collard greens and then served Auntie June’s recipe for peach cobbler for dessert.”
“You’re pretty, you dress well, and you know your way around da kitchen?” Jean-Pierre narrows his eyes at Luc. “You sure you’re not gay?”
That makes everyone at the table laugh.
This is how it’ll be, I realize. Maggie and Luc and family and friends. There will be laughter and stories and coffee dates and… Life will go on like life has always gone on.
I feel Violet’s eyes on me. When I look up, her expression is speculative and maybe a little bit compassionate. Not because of the secret I shared with her, but because she, of everyone at the table, seems to sense how hard this is for me.
Imagine that. Violet Carter is the one person in the whole world who gets it.
I swallow and look away from her. But when I do, I catch Maggie gazing at Luc again with that particular gleam in her eye.
They say love is a verb. A conscious act.
Sometimes that conscious act is simply finding the strength to let go…
Chapter Eighty-four
______________________________________
/> Maggie
First dates are a lot like job interviews. You dress for the part. You practice what you’re going to say. And you pray to God you don’t totally dweeb out.
Checking my reflection in my armoire’s full-length mirror, I have to admit I nailed the first step. I’ve chosen a midcalf black dress with three-quarter bell sleeves and a belted waist. It’s unadorned, so it’s not too fancy. But it’s still nice enough that should Luc decide to take me to one of NOLA’s premier restaurants, I won’t be barred at the door. It plays down my worst assets, namely my upper arms. And plays up my best assets, namely my waist and hips.
And yeah, yeah. I know I’m supposed to be all body positive. I’m perfect as I am. Just the way God made me. Yada yada.
But what I wouldn’t give for Michelle Obama’s arms!
My lips are lacquered with red lipstick titled Pinup Girl. But I’ve gone light on the mascara—Aunt Bea taught me early on that you do lips or eyes, but never both. And I’ve taken a straight iron to my hair, taming its natural waves.
“Hi, Luc,” I practice saying to the mirror. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight. Would you like to start with a glass of wine before we head to dinner?”
Check. Step two, practicing what I’ll say, is complete.
“What do you think?” I pirouette for Yard. He’s lying on my bed, head between his two front paws, watching me with sad brown eyes. He recognizes the signs I’ll be leaving soon. Still, his tail thumps excitedly atop the coverlet when I talk to him.
I decide to take that as a compliment. “Thanks, buddy.” I scratch his soft ears. “Your opinion is always—”
A knock sounds at the door, making me jump in surprise. Yard launches himself off the bed and stands by the door, hopping on his three legs and barking to beat the band.
“Yard! Shush!” But he ignores me, taking his guard-dog duties seriously for once.
“Who is it?” I yell.
Not Luc. He couldn’t have gotten through the gate. And Jean-Pierre never knocks.
“It’s Luc!” His deep voice easily penetrates the wood door, and Yard’s bark turns into a whimper of anticipation.
One of my neighbors must’ve let him in. I should probably talk to them about that. Seriously? What if Luc was a stalker? An ax murderer? A singing telegram? I suppress a shudder at the thought.
“Be right there!” I call, taking a deep breath and giving my reflection one more glance.
Oh holy Mother Mary. I’m doing it. I’m going on a date. With Luc!
Wiping my sweaty palms on my dress, I paste on what I hope looks like a confident smile and head to the door. “Hi, Luc.” That’s all I can manage. My throat turns traitor and closes up on me.
Yard has no such trouble. He wiggles and whines until Luc bends and scratches his ears. Then he plops his butt on the floor and basks with pink-tongued happiness in the affection. Both cats shoot out from under the kitchen table to wind themselves around Luc’s ankles, leaving cat hair along the way. Leonard mews his excitement. Sheldon turns over his motor and begins to purr.
After giving each cat a head rub and a base-of-the-tail scratch, Luc straightens and smiles at me. Those dastardly dimples do things to my lady parts I don’t feel comfortable describing.
“Uh…wine?” I say, then blink at the total implosion of the lines I practiced.
Great, Maggie. Real smooth.
“Pardon?” He cocks his head.
In my defense, a tangled tongue is a common affliction for anyone who’s come face-to-face with physical perfection. Which Luc is.
Tonight he’s paired blue jeans with a black T-shirt and a camel-colored sports coat. He’s freshly shaved. He got a haircut, but it didn’t do anything to tame his Superman whorl—thank you, baby Jesus. And even though, deep in his heart of hearts, he’s a little bit country, honey, I’m here to tell you the rest of him is totally rock ’n’ roll.
You know those cartoons where the wolf sees the pretty she-wolf and his pupils turn into hearts and his eyes pop out of his head? Well, that’s me. But reversed. I’m the she-wolf and Luc is…
Never mind. You know what I mean.
“Wine?” I say again. Apparently, I’m capable of only one syllable tonight.
His eyebrows draw into a V. “Are you asking if I brought some, or if I want some?”
I shake my head because my brain’s not working. He’s vaporized it and sent it seeping from my ears like smoke.
His eyes dance as he says, “Let’s try this again. Hi, Maggie May. You look pretty tonight.”
“You too,” I manage, and he sticks his tongue in his cheek to keep from laughing.
It’s official, folks. Step three is a spectacular failure.
Don’t dweeb out? Ha! Look up dweeb out in Urban Dictionary, and the first definition you’ll find will be my name: Magnolia May Carter.
I’m blushing so hard I can feel the blood pounding in my cheeks. “This is already a disaster,” I groan.
“A beautiful disaster,” he counters. “And in case I forget to tell you later, I had a wonderful time tonight.”
I stare at him, dazzled by the sparkle in his eyes. And yet strangely at ease too. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know what to say to make me feel better?”
He winks, and I swear I feel it in my bones. “Call it my superpower. Now, about that wine.”
I make a face. “What I meant to say was… Hi, Luc. I’ve been looking forward to tonight. Would you like to come in and have a glass of wine before we head to dinner?”
“Sure.” His mouth twitches, but he manages not to grin as he follows me into the kitchen.
I can feel his eyes on me while I dig for the corkscrew in my silverware drawer. Feel the heat of them as they travel a path down my back and over my hips and legs. I shiver. I can’t help it.
Auntie June says that New Orleans is unique in that it abides by the idea of consequence. Most folks in this city wake up having no idea what the day will bring. Whether they’ll go to bed with a smile on their face or tears on their cheeks. But whichever it is, they know their interactions throughout the day will have mattered.
There’s a real sense of make it count here that other places are missing, she claims.
As I turn back to Luc, I feel her sentiment keenly. A lot hinges on tonight. It matters. And I’m determined to make it count.
Of course, five hours later, I realize when it comes to making it count, Luc is high king. He took me to Coop’s Place for dinner. He knows their jambalaya is just about my favorite thing on the entire planet. Then we walked over to a spot in the Marigny neighborhood and danced to a zydeco band until we were hot and sweaty. He requested they play the song we heard that night when he taught me to waltz, and all these years later, he still let me kick out of my shoes and stand on his toes while he twirled me around the dance floor.
We laughed. We drank. We talked like old friends do. And we touched. A lot.
We’re touching now as we head down the sidewalk back toward The Quarter. His hand is on my back, carefully steering me around the cracks in the sidewalk. It’s huge and hard and hot and… Okay, so please don’t take away my card-carrying feminist status, but I like the way it makes me feel cherished. Protected.
The stars are out. The city is sparkling with light. And off in the distance, the low rumble of the river matches the rush of my heart.
Tonight has been…thrilling. And comfortable.
How is it possible to feel both those things at once?
“How are those shoes treating you?” he asks when I hobble.
“They’re the devil,” I admit. “But they’re adorable, so they’re totally worth the pain.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll never understand women.”
I slant him a glance. “On the contrary, from all I’ve heard, you understand women very well.”
The smile he gives me is… Well, there’s simply no other word for it. It’s seductive.
; Another shiver races down my spine.
When a carriage mule plods past us, Luc hails the driver. “Hey, mister! You still on the clock?”
“Just finished my shift,” the driver says, pulling off his tricorn hat and running his fingers through the twenty or so gray hairs left atop his head. He’s wearing a black vest atop a frilly white shirt. The entire getup is enough to make a pirate smile.
“You think you got one more ride in you? We’re only heading over to the spice shop on St. Louis Street.” Luc pulls out his wallet. “I can make it worth your while.”
The driver tugs on the reins, and the mule’s ears pin back against its head. Even as it trudges to a stop, I swear it eyes me sullenly. It was ready for the barn and some hay, and it’s blaming me for the delay.
The driver says he’ll do it for twenty bucks, and I tell Luc, “No way. It’s only another ten blocks.”
“Lemme take you on a carriage ride, woman,” is all he says, handing the money to the carriage man and helping me up into the leather seat. His hands on my waist, spanning my waist, make my breath escape me in one quick exhale. And it’s not until I’m sitting down that it comes back to me.
It’s late, so the buskers have turned in for the night. There’s only a low murmur of music in the distance and the hollow clip-clop of the mule’s hooves against the street.
When I lay my head on Luc’s shoulder, he takes my hand. His palm is hard with calluses, but his fingers are gentle.
“You were right earlier,” I tell him quietly, staring into the darkened windows of the shops as we go by.
“About what?”
“About having a wonderful time tonight. In fact, this might go down in history as one of the best first dates ever.”
A deep, satisfied rumble sounds in his chest, making something hot and wild unfurl low in my belly.
It’s weird to want someone who’s been my friend for so long, someone whom I’ve only recently begun to think of as anything more than a friend. But weirdness aside, I find myself wondering if he’ll kiss me once we reach my apartment. Will there be more than a kiss?
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 17