Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  I sigh, in no mood for his bombastic bullshit. “Why the fuck are you here, Rick?”

  “Can’t a father wish his only son a happy New Year?”

  “A normal father? Sure. But a man like you doesn’t show up to dinner without an appetite, so I’ll ask again. Why the fuck are you here? What the fuck do you want?”

  His upper lip curls. “I want you to tell me who that little cunt and that sonofabitching swamp rat talked to. I want to know which of those rich, fat, pompous pricks had the balls to squeal on me.”

  I feel a moment’s pleasure knowing I am the reason he’s in this predicament.

  “Go fuck yourself, Rick.” With a wide smile that invites him to kiss my ass, I turn and walk into the house. But before I can slam the door, he’s on me.

  A blow lands between my shoulder blades like a sledgehammer, knocking me into the middle of the living room. I manage to keep my feet under me as all the impotent rage of my youth explodes to the surface. Only, this time, it’s paired with the overpowering fury of a man who has nothing left to lose.

  With a roar, I turn to him, determined to end his reign of terror once and for all.

  And this time I don’t plan to stop until one or both of us is dead.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  Dear Luc,

  This will be my last letter.

  It’s been a year since I penned the first one. OVER a year since you and Cash left. And I have mixed feelings about writing this final note.

  On the one hand, I’m relieved. Now I can stop thinking about you every day, since thinking about you makes me miss you, and missing you makes me sad. On the other hand, I’ve enjoyed sitting down and putting pen to paper. Even though the conversation has been one-sided, I’ve liked talking to you, imagining what you’d say in return.

  Oh, who am I kidding? We both know that even if I’m NOT writing every day, I’ll continue to miss you from the bottom of my heart because…well… I think this quote from Hubert H. Humphrey pretty much sums it up. “The greatest gift of life is friendship, and I have received it.” You gave me the gift of your friendship when I needed it most.

  Thank you. A million times, thank you.

  I hope life treats you kindly. You deserve all the good things it has to offer.

  Goodbye,

  Maggie May

  The older you get, the more you come to understand there’s no such thing as black and white. Everything is a nuanced shade of gray.

  Take, for instance, Maggie’s confession. Part of me cringes when I think about it. The three of us got along fine when it was her and Cash pining away for each other, with me stuck on the sidelines. There was a universal synchronicity to it. A balance. How will things work if she starts returning my feelings?

  I’ve always hated the idea of a love triangle. Don’t reckon I’ll take kindly to being a part of one.

  On the other hand, I want to whoop with joy and happy dance. I mean, hot damn! After twelve years, it’s about time!

  And, of course, maybe she would’ve worked her way around to wanting me sooner if Cash hadn’t arrived on the scene when he did, this brash, cocky kid who wouldn’t give up until he got what he wanted. (Not that I blame him for falling for her. How could I when that’s exactly what I did?) Still, it feels like I’m belatedly getting my just deserts.

  Then again, maybe this whole line of thinking is moot. Obviously she doesn’t want to talk to me about it even though she said she did. When she texted talk apparently she meant she wanted to explain herself in a few, brief lines, and my telling her to call me scared her off. Which probably means I’m making a bigger deal out of this than I should and—

  I pull my earbuds from my ears and cock my head, listening. Even in winter the swamp is alive with sounds. The eerie hoot of an owl. The loud splash of a wild boar tramping through the water. The sorrowful call of the wind through the trees.

  The tinny beat of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Born on the Bayou” issues from my earbuds. But other than that…nothing. I must’ve been imagining things when I thought I heard a noise that didn’t belong.

  Popping my earbuds back into place, I hum along to my father’s favorite song and watch the stars twinkle over the treetops. The night is dark without the benefit of a moon. And it’s cool without being cold.

  From my favorite chair on the porch, I spy a pair of eyes glowing about a hundred yards into the water. A gator, watching, waiting, hoping for a fat, orange-toothed nutria to swim by and—

  There it is again. That noise that doesn’t belong.

  Yanking out my earbuds, my socked feet thump against the floorboards when I sit up from my reclined position.

  The hairs at the back of my neck lift, and I’m reminded of the tales of the rougarou, a cross between a man and a wolf, that supposedly likes to wander the swamp or the city streets at night, assaulting people in hopes that someone will draw its blood. According to legend, once you draw the blood of a rougarou, you become the next rougarou.

  Even though I don’t believe in any of that, on nights like this, when the swamp is especially dark, it’s harder not to let my imagination run wild.

  Standing slowly, I turn toward the house.

  My pulse steadies, and a relieved chuckle escapes me when, through the window, I don’t spot a burglar or rougarou or an unwelcome visit from a fuzzy woodland creature (three weeks ago, a squirrel snuck in and I had the devil of a time getting it out) and instead spot Maggie standing in front of my coffee table. She’s changed out of her cocktail dress and into a pair of midcalf sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. But her hair is still styled for a party. And her eyes are still darkened by kohl, giving her a slightly vampy appearance.

  There’s a strange pressure in my chest. I place a hand over my heart, aiming to quell it. But it doesn’t work. Even a long, slow breath doesn’t help.

  Giving up, I open the porch door. “Maggie May.” I’m amazed my voice doesn’t betray me. “I reckoned you were gonna call me, not come for a visit. But it’s good to see you.”

  “I couldn’t call,” she says. “A drunk butthead knocked my phone out of my hand while we were texting and then he stepped on it, smashing it to bits.”

  Before I can read her expression, she glances down to my open leather-bound journal. Most pages in it are a mishmash of lyrics and stanzas and bits and pieces of poetry. She sits on the sofa and reads aloud a snippet of prose I’ve titled “The Story.”

  Her voice is soft. Hearing my words in her throat gives me a strange thrill.

  I want to tell you a story of a silver moon

  that dripped its radiance onto the ground

  I want to tell you a story of a zydeco band

  that played us a melancholy tune

  I want to tell you a story of a cypress bow

  that shadowed us as we waltzed

  I want to tell you a story of a girl

  I loved who didn’t love me back

  I want to tell you a story of a goodbye

  that broke my heart into bright, brittle pieces

  I want to tell you a story, the story, of…that night.

  After she’s finished reading, she closes the journal and lifts her face to me. I haven’t moved from my spot in the open doorway. But if I clench my hands any harder, my short nails might pierce the skin of my palms.

  “Do you ever wonder how things might’ve been different if I’d let you kiss me that night?”

  A chuff of breath escapes me. I squeeze my eyes shut. But, unfortunately, the truth doesn’t disappear just because I don’t want to look at it.

  “Only every day,” I admit, slowly opening my eyes, letting them land softly on her face.

  “You wouldn’t have gone to the truck to fetch your jacket. Dean wouldn’t have caught me all alone. I wouldn’t have…” She swallows, unable to voice the rest of that thought. Instead, she says, “If I’d let you kiss me, would you have followed Cash
into the army or would you have stayed?”

  After walking over to the sofa on legs like wet noodles, I take a seat beside her. My weight depresses the cushion, and she slides toward me. Not much. Only enough so that her right knee touches my left.

  “Between you and Cash, my choices were the rock and the hard place,” I admit. “But what I do know now, what I knew back then, is that Cash needed me more than you did.”

  “You had dueling loyalties then.”

  “Hell, woman. I have dueling loyalties now.”

  She cocks her head. “But you told me you’ve been holding a candle for me. If you’re worried about being disloyal to him, why, after all these years, admit that?”

  I sigh. “Maybe ’cause time has a way of obliterating even the best of intentions.”

  When she frowns, I lift my hands and let them fall. “What d’ya want me to say? I was tired of holding it in. I wanted to live my life in the open, in the light.”

  “You’re a spec-ops guy, for Pete’s sake,” she grumbles. “I thought that was pretty much the definition of a life lived in the dark.”

  “You’re confusing clandestineness with secrets. They’re not the same thing.”

  “Does Cash know?” She chews on her lip and glances down at her hands to pick at a hangnail. Her voice is quieter when she adds, “I mean, have you told him what you told me?”

  “I’ve never come right out and said it, but he knows. I reckon he’s always known.”

  That has her eyes popping to my face. “Always?”

  “He said something recently that leads me to believe he’s known since the first day when he sat down at our booth.”

  She blinks myopically. “And yet he still made his move on me?”

  I smile and spread my hands. “Can you blame him? He didn’t know me from Adam, and you were so young and fresh, with this sparkly, shiny way about you. He was a moth drawn to your light. We both were.”

  She swallows and looks away. “I never felt sparkly or shiny. I felt…lost. And alone. And so scared of everything, especially myself.”

  “Not all that glitters is gold, Maggie May. Sadness can have a sheen to it too,” I tell her. “Loneliness can have a certain luster.”

  A puff of air escapes her. “Pretty words.”

  There are a million questions I want to ask her. Starting with, Did you truly mean what you said at the party? But the chasm between what I want to ask and all the complications and repercussions of the answer seems impossible to cross.

  Eventually, she asks, “Why didn’t you tell me back then how you felt?”

  I shrug. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  She shakes her head. “But how do you know that?”

  “’Cause I was there, remember? I saw your face when you looked at him for the first time. In that moment, it was all over for me. So I decided not to fight a losing battle. I decided to accept what you were willing to give.”

  She clutches her locket in her fist. After a while, she admits quietly, “I think I needed someone like him. Someone not from around here. Someone who hadn’t suffered the terror and trauma of Katrina. Someone I could forget with. But now? Now I think he’s the opposite of what I need.”

  I wish I could think of something profound to say, but that pressure in my chest from earlier is growing, making it impossible to breathe, much less speak. It’s hope. Voluminous, ever-expanding hope.

  I feel so damned guilty for it.

  “He still loves you,” I remind her. But maybe I’m reminding myself.

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t want me.”

  I shake my head. “How can you be sure? He might just be saying that ’cause—”

  She stops me with a raised hand. “I’m sure.” There’s a certainty in her voice I haven’t heard before. “And the truth is, it doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t want me, because I think I’ve stopped wanting him.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I scoff.

  “Don’t I?” She searches my eyes. When she sighs, it sounds like letting go. “When I was young, I didn’t understand that Cash’s brand of love can be self-serving and careless. I was blinded by his confidence and his life-force. But I can see things clearly now. You’ve helped me see things clearly.”

  My chin jerks back. “What did I do?”

  “You’ve been you.”

  I shake my head, not understanding.

  “When I think back on it, you’ve always been my one true thing.”

  I can’t let myself believe her, even though I want to so badly.

  She fiddles with her locket. Watching me. Waiting for me to say something.

  I don’t know what to say. This is my biggest fantasy and greatest nightmare all rolled into one. My heart is a time bomb waiting to explode. There’s a rushing river in my ears.

  Eventually, she sighs. “It’s pretty simple actually. Happiness isn’t an accident that either crashes into us or doesn’t. Happiness is a choice. We have to choose the things in life that bring us pleasure. He doesn’t make me happy, Luc. He hasn’t made me happy in over ten years. You do. Every day you’ve been back in my life has given me joy.”

  “What are you saying, Maggie May?”

  “I’m saying I want to see if there might be something more between us. I’m saying…” She swallows, and her cheeks flush an adorable cotton-candy pink. “I want to kiss you, Luc.” She makes a face. “Maybe I’ve been listening to too much Cher, thanks to Jean-Pierre, but I feel like if I kiss you, I’ll know if we have a chance.”

  My whole body flashes hot and cold as the old lyrics about a kiss proving whether it’s love spin through my head. I try to lighten the mood (and also I’m stalling) when I say, “You know Cher only covered that song, right? It was originally sung by Betty Everett.”

  “Luc, come on,” she pleads helplessly.

  I rake in a deep breath, as if filling my lungs will somehow make what I’m about to say more bearable. “Are you sure you’re not feeling this way ’cause you’re upset with how Cash acted tonight at the party? ’Cause you’re feeling rejected by him and looking for a way to make yourself feel better?”

  Her mouth twists. I can’t tell if it’s with humor or pain. And then she clears everything up when she smiles that smile that lights her up from the inside out. “Maybe 1 percent is about that.”

  “And the other 99 percent?” I ask anxiously.

  “It’s about you being wonderful and amazing and sexy as hell.”

  All the hope inside me bubbles to the surface. My decision is made; my loyalties are no longer divided. This time it’s my turn. “I can live with that,” I tell her.

  Cupping her jaw, I lean close, overwhelmed by the proximity of her. I search her eyes and see her tense, as if she’s having second thoughts. Then she glances at my mouth, and her expression loosens. When her eyes return to mine, her curiosity, her hunger is unmistakable. Before I can overthink things, I claim her mouth.

  It’s as soft and sweet as I thought it’d be. Eager beneath mine. Following my lead.

  I take my time, learning her taste, her texture, teasing the pleasure out of her, showing her all I’ve learned over the years until my head grows light and my blood grows hot.

  This right here, kissing Magnolia May Carter, is what I was born to do.

  I didn’t know it until this moment.

  Her hands spear into my hair, and she groans, opening wider, inviting me in. Instantly, our soft, searching kiss turns wanton and wicked. It grows deep and wet. A kiss I feel in my belly. In my bones. In the hard, incessant throb of my blood.

  “Luc,” she whispers when I let her up for air.

  “Maggie May,” I answer quietly, lost in her. Lost in this. Lost in us. But before I can reclaim her mouth (that mouth that is the end and the beginning of all things), the sound of tires crunching over gravel invades our privacy.

  At first I’m too confused to place the noise. But when she pulls back, blinking at me, I come to my senses.

  The
first things I notice are her delightfully rosy cheeks, slightly dazed eyes, and wonderfully kiss-swollen lips. So this is what she looks like when she’s been good and snogged? She’s even more beautiful than I imagined and—

  The slam of a car door reminds me why my tongue isn’t currently inside her mouth.

  “Are you—” She has to clear her throat. Please don’t judge me too harshly for feeling a kick of pride at that. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No.” I stand from the sofa. Walking over to the window above the sink, the one that overlooks the back of the house, I squint into the darkness beyond. My fingers instinctively curl around hers when she comes up behind me and slips her hand into mine.

  “Who is it?” She tries to peer over my shoulder.

  My heart, so full and swollen a second ago, drops onto the floor like a lead stone.

  “Go lock yourself in the bathroom,” I tell her.

  “What?” She blinks in confusion as I let go of her hand to open a cabinet drawer. I pull out my Colt .45 and press-check the chamber to make sure a round is loaded. “Luc?” There’s a terrified edge to her voice as her wide-eyed stare turns from the gun to my face. “Who is it? What’s happening?”

  “Go to the bathroom, Maggie May.”

  “Who is it?” she demands.

  “It’s Sullivan.” Even in the dark of the swamp, I can’t mistake the hulking outline of his Dodge Ram pickup truck or the sparkle of its cattle guard.

  The sound of boot heels thumping across the wooden walkway leading to the back door is like an aural assault. The hairs on the back of my neck lift in warning, and adrenaline sizzles through my bloodstream.