“So then what’s the plan?” She looks incredulous. “You’re going to walk in and say, ‘Hey, Dad, mind if I—’”
“Rick,” I interrupt. “Never Dad.”
“You’re going to walk in and say, ‘Hey, Rick, mind if I take a peek inside your safe?’”
“More like wait until he leaves and then break in.”
For a second, she says nothing. Then, “B-break in? Like, break in? Anything we find would be inadmissible.”
“Gather the evidence first.” Luc nods. “Find a way to make it work for us later.”
She gulps, struggling with the itsy-bitsy ethical dilemma of committing a crime in the name of bringing down a couple of criminals.
“What kinda safe is it?” Luc asks, already on board with the plan.
“The kind I know the combination to.” I wink. “Rick wasn’t careful about opening the thing around me when I was young. I’m sure he figured I’d never have the balls to open it myself, since he’d beat me to within an inch of my life if I did.”
“Good. Does he still go into the office every day?”
“Hell if I know.”
“So we need to do recon first.” Luc rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Check out his security system. Learn his schedule so we know the best time to go in. I say we start surveilling his place on Monday.”
“Wait until the weekend is over and he’s back to his regular work schedule. Yep.” I nod. “We’re on the same page.”
Maggie throws her hands in the air. “Do I even need to be here?”
Luc has the grace to look chagrined.
“We have a particular set of skills,” I say, lowering my voice to a guttural growl. “Skills we’ve acquired over long careers. Skills that make us a nightmare for people like—”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I recognize Taken when I hear it. Liam Neeson is an Irish god.”
Busted.
“It’s been years since you’ve been inside that house,” she points out. “What makes you think he still has the same safe? And if he does have the same safe, what makes you think he hasn’t changed the combination?”
“Because he’s an egomaniac,” I explain with a snort of derision. “Considers himself the big man in town, above the law, untouchable. He won’t have changed the safe or the combo. It won’t have crossed his mind that he might need to.”
She seems to chew on that for a while. Then she rubs the back of her neck and lets out a long, tired-sounding sigh. “Man, I feel like ten miles of bad road. Listening to people lie like dogs all afternoon really took it out of me.”
“I’ll drive you home.” Luc stands from the folding chair now that our plan is set.
“Wait. I’m hungry. Aren’t y’all hungry?” She looks from Luc to me. “What do you say we head over to Willie Mae’s Scotch House for fried chicken?”
“I ate an hour ago,” I tell her. I don’t mention that by ate I mean I slapped some squares of American cheese onto crackers because that’s all my stomach would allow. “But you guys should go.”
I can tell she’s disappointed, even as she plays it off by standing. “Suit yourself.”
The truth is, I want nothing more than to go with them. Go with her. Spend every minute of every waking hour being close to her. But that’s part of the problem, and it’s not part of The Plan.
First order of business, bring down Sullivan and that piece of shit whose name is on my birth certificate. Second order of business, prove to Maggie once and for all that what we had is well and truly gone.
After the front door closes, I shuffle to the kitchen and grab a new bottle of Gentleman Jack. Then I take my liquid relief and my heartbreak to bed with me.
Chapter Forty
______________________________________
Maggie
Life has a familiar beat. A rhythm. And your body knows it and can keep on dancing even when your mind is splintering into a thousand pieces.
Somehow, despite everything going on in—and going wrong with—my life, I pulled a double yesterday. And I managed to laugh and carry on like always. But I woke up this morning feeling the side effects of all the stress and worry.
My head aches. My back hurts. My stomach is in knots. As Auntie June says, I feel like I’ve been chewed up, spit out, and stepped on.
Even my quick trip to the animal shelter this morning to drop off an extra bag of dog food and my nice chat with some of the regular volunteers weren’t enough to lighten my spirits. Nor was the walk from my apartment to Café Du Monde despite the rays of the sun melting into my skin like Vaseline. I’m hoping a delicious cup of coffee will do the trick.
Waving to the waitress, a cutie pie whom Cash will no doubt flirt with once he gets here—grrr—I say, “Can I get a café au lait when you get a chance?”
“Coming right up,” she says cheerfully. Her rosy cheeks and bright smile scratch at my frayed nerves as the door opens and Cash pushes inside.
“Oh my,” the waitress says breathlessly when he grabs the seat next to mine. Her name tag identifies her as Jessica, but she’s quick to introduce herself to Cash as Jess.
He has the temerity to gift her with his most devastating pirate’s smile.
“He’ll have a black coffee. And we’ll both take a plate of beignets,” I say without my usual tendency toward small talk or politeness.
Ugh, ugh, ugh!
Maybe I should’ve stayed home with the covers over my head. I’m not fit for company. Especially pretty, chipper, waitressy company.
And yes, it’s true that Cash is an equal-opportunity flirter. Young or old, rich or poor, homely or pretty, everyone gets the benefit of his charm. As a general rule, I don’t let that bother me. But it seems that everything is bothering me this morning.
After Jess turns toward the kitchen, Cash frowns at me. “You wake up on the wrong side of the bed or what?”
“Well, a happy howdy-do to you too, Cash.”
He turns that smile on me and mimics my accent. “Howdy-do. You look especially beautiful this morning.”
I didn’t bother with makeup, and my hair is pulled into a sloppy bun on top of my head.
“You’re a liar and a tease,” I accuse, but darned if some of my bad mood doesn’t melt away.
“You lack the ability to discern the subtleties of my character. I’m an idealist and a complimenter.”
“Complimenter isn’t a word.”
“Neither is grumpy-wumpy, but that’s you in a nutshell. Why are you scowling like someone kicked your dog?”
I fidget in my seat. “I don’t know. It probably has something to do with me not being able to stop thinking about tomorrow. The thought of you and Luc going over to—”
He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “There’s no need to worry. It’s nothing but recon. We won’t engage.”
“Recon,” I parrot. “Engage. I feel like I’m a character in a movie. A fugitive on the run from the law with two covert operatives as my sidekicks. How the heck did this become my life?”
Regret peeks through his genial expression. “Because I used my fists on Dean all those years ago instead of using my head.”
“Or because”—I make sure my voice is barely above a whisper—“I hit him with a—”
I was so engrossed in our conversation I didn’t see Luc arrive. He startles me into silence when he pulls out the chair to my right and takes a seat. Bending to press a quick, perfunctory kiss to my cheek, he sets a red polka dot gift bag on the table.
“What’s this?” I eye the present.
“I saw ’em online and couldn’t resist.” He grins. “And in case you’re wondering, yes. I bought a pair for myself.”
Glad for a distraction from the current topic—it was beginning to make my stomach hurt—I dig past the tissue paper and come up with red plaid pajama bottoms and a matching T-shirt printed with the Gryffindor Quidditch Team logo.
“For when you wanna lay ’round and get waited on by a house elf.” His grin widens
. “Or, you know, for your Waistband Mondays.”
Luc has a way of making even the darkest day brighter.
“I love them.” I hug the pajamas to my chest before carefully refolding them into the gift bag. “I’ve always said the Sorting Hat would’ve put us in the same Hogwarts house.”
Cash rolls his eyes. “If you two start quoting The Big Bang Theory, I’m out of here.”
I shake my head sorrowfully before turning to mock-whisper to Luc, “It’s sad to be sitting next to such a lost cause, isn’t it?”
“It’s not like we didn’t try with him,” Luc laments.
Cash’s expression says his exceedingly magnanimous patience is being stretched to its limits. “Maggie’s in a mood this morning,” he tells Luc. “She’s worried how tomorrow will go, so I say we take her mind off things by checking another excursion off our list. The Voodoo Museum is open today. We could swing by after we’re finished here.”
“You’re sure in an all-fire hurry to finish that list.” I frown at him.
“Life’s short.” He shrugs. “Why wait?”
Jess reappears with our coffees and two plates of beignets. The sweet smell of powdered sugar fills the air, and I distract myself with settling the gift bag next to my chair so I don’t have to watch Cash flirt.
“This seat taken?” A familiar voice with an accent as thick as bread dough sounds above me.
“Eva!” I jump up to give her a hug. She’s been in Atlanta modeling clothes for an online catalog for the past week. I didn’t think she was supposed to be back until later this evening. “What are you doing here?”
“I changed my flight to first thing this morning,” she says. “And the minute the plane landed, I started jonesing for something sweet and calorie-laden. Molly’s booked me for three runway shows this spring, so I’m determined to indulge over the next couple of months before I have to start starving myself come the New Year.”
Molly Van Buren is Eva’s hotshot New York agent. Eva credits Molly for getting her all the best gigs. But I think Eva’s long, slim beauty does the heavy hitting for her.
“Sit, sit.” I retake my seat and shove a plate of beignets her way.
She greets Luc and Cash. And after Jess reappears to take Eva’s and Luc’s drink orders, Eva picks up a beignet and stares at it like it’s a lover. “Come to Momma, you wonderful doughy nugget of deep-fried glory.”
Taking a bite, she closes her eyes and hums in ecstasy. I swear, every male head in the place turns to watch her enjoy her food. But she’s oblivious when she opens her eyes and says around the beignet, “Thanks for the fingernail polish, Maggie. You don’t have to leave me a gift every time you come over to water my plants, you know. I should be giving you gifts.”
I hitch a shoulder. “I just think it’s nice to come home to a welcome-back present.”
I don’t add that I understand how lonely it can be to walk into an empty apartment. That loneliness—coupled with my love of animals, of course—is why I have Sheldon, Leonard, and Yard.
“How did you manage to get your hands on a bottle?” She eyes me curiously. “I thought that color was discontinued.”
“It was.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “But I have my secret ways.”
When I heard her favorite polish was going to stop being made, I stocked up on six bottles of the stuff so I could surprise her with it in the months and years to come.
“You’re a wonder.” She leans over and busses my cheek. Then she rubs at a speck of powdered sugar she left behind. “Isn’t she a wonder?” She turns to Luc and Cash.
They agree that I am, and I make dismissive sounds while shaking my head. It doesn’t take much to whip out my credit card and put in an online order at Sephora.
“We’re headed to the Voodoo Museum after this,” Cash says around a bite of beignet. “You should come with us, Eva.”
“You should,” I enthuse. “With your family history, it’ll be a hoot.”
Cash frowns. “What family history?”
“I never told you?” He shakes his head, and I rub my hands together, relishing the tale to come. “So…” I lower my voice to an appropriate storytelling octave. “Eva’s great-great-too-many-greats-to-remember-grandfather was a Voodoo priest. He fled Haiti during a slave revolt at a sugar plantation sometime in the middle of the 1700s.”
I must’ve made Eva’s grandmother tell me this story a dozen times. I used to sit at Granny Mabel’s feet for hours listening to her talk about how people in her neighborhood would sprinkle red brick dust across their stoops to protect themselves against curses and hexes and how they could buy love potions and gris-gris from the local drugstores.
“According to Eva’s family lore,” I say, “he hid in a clothing trunk and was smuggled into New Orleans by none other than Anne Bonny herself.”
“Anne Bonny?” Cash asks.
“Famous female pirate,” Luc explains.
“What a bunch of hooey.” Eva laughs. “Every Creole family worth their salt has a story about an ancestor who came from Haiti and was a Voodoo priest or priestess.”
“Are you saying you don’t believe it?” Luc asks.
“Oh, I believe in a lot of crazy things. Fat-free chocolate cake. Exercise that’s fun. Honest men. But I think Granny Mabel could spin a yarn like nobody’s business, and I know she recognized when she had a gullible audience.” She angles a thumb my way.
“Fine. Make fun. But I’ll be the one laughing when the spirit of your Voodoo ancestor speaks to you once you’re inside the museum.” I wiggle my fingers spookily.
She pulls a face of regret as Jess arrives with the coffees. “Wish I could come,” she says. “But I have a mani scheduled in an hour. Tomorrow I’m doing a shoot for a new brand of dish soap.”
Did I mention Eva does body-part modeling too? She’s pretty all over. Even her hands and feet are in high demand.
The beeyotch.
As we settle in with our morning joes and beignets, the conversation turns to food and music, natch. Eva tells us she has a cousin who’ll be filling in for the regular pianist at Fritzel’s, the only true-blue jazz club left on Bourbon Street, and that we should stop by to have a listen if we find the time. And Luc tells us he’s been aiming to perfect his mother’s oyster casserole, but hasn’t managed to get it right just yet.
“How much nutmeg are you using?” Eva asks around a sip of coffee.
“A teaspoon,” Luc says. “Mom’s recipe says ‘a pinch,’ so…”
Eva shakes her head. “That’s way too much. Quarter of a teaspoon at most.”
Luc smiles at her bemusedly. “So besides being beautiful and smart and kind, you can cook? Why hasn’t some man snatched you up and made an honest woman of you?”
“Hey, I’m as honest as they come!” Her laugh is deep and throaty, and I swear once again every male head in the room turns to get a better listen. “But the truth is…” She makes a face. “I intimidate men. I don’t know if it’s the height or the hair or the job or what.”
“You don’t intimidate me.” Luc leans forward and whispers something in her ear that makes her catch her bottom lip between her teeth and smile.
I feel like I’m watching foreplay. The kind that leads to wild, unbridled sex. That’s sex with a capital S and triple X.
When he pulls back, my bad mood reasserts itself, and I hear myself asking him, “So what’s the deal with Sally Renee? I haven’t heard you mention her lately.”
His eyes narrow. “She’s taking a three-month tour of Europe, hoping it’ll help her get over the death of her husband.”
I lift both eyebrows. “I thought you were helping her with that.”
“I was only a stopgap measure.”
I shake my head. “So y’all called it quits? Just like that?”
“We figured we should get out while the getting was good.”
I turn to Eva. “Take note. He looks sweet and wholesome, but don’t let the dimples fool you. He’s grown into a rake and rogue. I’d gi
ve him a wide berth if I were you.”
After that pronouncement, an uncomfortable quiet descends. Luc tugs at his ear. Cash gives me a strange look. And Eva shifts uncomfortably in her chair.
Good Lord! Why did I say that?
Chapter Forty-one
______________________________________
Cash
Dear Cash,
It’s Carnival season again. And you know what that means. Parades. Krewes. Throws. And cheap, plastic beads covering the entire town.
Growing up here, I was immune to the spectacle of it all. To me, it was simply a part of the year’s celebrations, like Christmas or the Fourth of July. It wasn’t until I met you that I realized how truly special it is. You helped me see it from an outsider’s perspective.
Thank you for that.
Tonight the Krewe of Iris was on parade. You know I love the bedazzled sunglasses they throw. I caught two pair! They’re sitting on my bookshelf next to the ones you caught for me last year.
Now I have three sets of sparkly, garish sunglasses. If you and Luc ever come back, we’ll have to wear them to the parades.
Oh, and I forgot to tell you in yesterday’s letter that I laughed for the first time since you left. At least I think it was the first time. It surprised me when it came out of me, and it sounded kind of rusty.
I went to the animal shelter to walk the dogs, but someone had dropped off a box of puppies. The staff vet said they were probably around eight weeks old, and the folks at the shelter had them in a pen set up in the lobby.
I climbed inside to play with them, and they were so wiggly and fluffy. They scrambled all over me and licked my face and… Just like that, I was laughing.
It felt good.
I’m feeling good. Or at least I’m feeling better.
And that gives me hope that maybe, someday, I’ll be able to put what’s happened behind me and laugh all the time.
Do you think that’s possible? Do you think it’s possible to have a good life with something awful weighing on your conscience?
Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2 Page 8
