Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  “So… Jackson Square?” Cash circles back around. “You in or out?”

  “I suppose I’m in,” Maggie says. Her expression brightens as if the idea is growing on her. “Huh. Beignets followed by a trip to see the fortune-tellers, kitchen countertop shopping, and a second line tonight. I can’t tell you the last time I had a day like this. One that didn’t involve slinging booze or booking bands.”

  “There’s a second line tonight?” Cash asks, one eyebrow cocked in curiosity. “What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s in honor of Jelly Bean Jenkins.” Her face falls. “He died last week.”

  You know how I said New Orleans is a city of sound? Well, most of that sound is music. On the streets, in the bars, echoing from speakers set out on balconies. Blues, jazz, zydeco, and bluegrass fill the air 24/7.

  As you can imagine, that means we New Orleanians are a tad partial to our musicians. We’re as proud of those who gain international fame, like Fats Domino and Harry Connick Jr., as we are of those who are famous only to the citizens of the city.

  Jelly Bean Jenkins is one of the latter…was one of the latter. A staple at Preservation Hall, he could blow a horn with the best of them.

  I remember meeting him for the first time after my mom moved us into town. Like so many musicians in the Big Easy, he spent Saturday afternoons busking down on Royal Street for extra pocket change. When my mom dropped a five-spot in his open trombone case, he grabbed her hand and kissed it.

  NOLA might qualify as a city, but at the center of its hot, beating heart is a small town. Everyone knew about my mother back then. Knew about her and judged her. That Jelly Bean Jenkins, a man revered and respected, would make a show of accepting her brought a tear to her eye that day.

  Brought one to mine, too, if I’m being honest.

  “Damn.” Cash leans back in his chair. “Jelly Bean Jenkins. Haven’t thought of him in years. He was older than dirt even back when we were in high school.”

  “He was ninety-six when he died,” Maggie says. “Just last year, I asked him the secret to his longevity. You know what he told me?” An impish grin tugs at her lips. “He said it was sober living.”

  “Sober living?” Cash snorts. “Didn’t he walk around with a joint tucked behind his ear?”

  “And another in his pocket,” she agrees.

  The three of us burst out laughing.

  “Just goes to show, I guess,” Maggie says.

  “Show what?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I have no idea.”

  We’re still laughing when Violet Carter stops beside our table, one hand planted on her hip. “Well, well, well,” she says. “Never thought I’d see the three of you together again.”

  Courtesy has me standing and offering Maggie’s sister my hand. “Violet, it’s a pleasure to see you after all these years. You’re looking mighty fine, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  I’m not lying, per se. Violet is an attractive woman, sharing Maggie’s thick black hair and slimly curved figure. But where Maggie’s eyes are sky blue, Violet’s are dusty gray. Where Maggie’s face is sweet and open, Violet’s is pinched and sour.

  She looks me up and down. “I don’t mind at all. And you’re one to talk. Went and filled out, didn’t you? Got rid of that nasty acne.”

  My teeth set. I’ve never been partial to Violet. Even though she was in my grade in school, and even though she never joined in when the other kids called me names or badmouthed my mom, neither did she come to my defense.

  “Time has a way of making us better, doncha think?” I ask her.

  “I guess that remains to be seen.” She turns away from me to level a look at Cash. “And Cash Armstrong. The army didn’t instill any manners in you? Don’t you know it’s polite to stand when a lady comes to your table?”

  He glances around. “I’m sorry. Is there a lady somewhere?”

  “Cash,” Maggie scolds, two flags of color flying in her cheeks. “Don’t mind him, Vee. You know he was born cantankerous.”

  It kills me that Maggie has always tried to mollify Violet. I’d hoped with time and distance, she’d realize she isn’t responsible for what happened to her parents. I’d hoped Violet would see fit to let go of her anger and blame.

  “Do you want to sit with us?” Maggie lays a hand on the extra chair at our table. “We have a couple of beignets left.”

  “Oh, no.” Violet motions toward the far corner. “I have friends waiting.”

  I glance over to see a group of women dressed in their Sunday finest. I recognize each of them from high school.

  Maggie waves. But when she turns back to Violet, her expression is crestfallen. “You started up the Ladies Who Brunch Club again?”

  “Now that Cheryl’s and Marlene’s babies are older, they can spare a couple of hours each Sunday. And Jessa’s design company is doing so well she was able to hire an assistant, so now she has more time on her hands.” Violet sighs dramatically. “Besides, we were all dying without our weekly girl time.”

  “Of course.” Maggie smiles. Again, I can see it’s a bit wobbly.

  Violet blinks as if she’s surprised by Maggie’s hurt. “I would’ve invited you, Maggie, but you’re always so busy with the bar.”

  “It’s true,” Maggie agrees.

  “But apparently you’re not so busy today.” Violet glances from me to Cash.

  “I took today off because…well, mainly because these two have come home. Can you believe it?”

  “Mmm,” Violet hums. “And after years of ignoring you like you were nothing, you welcomed them back with open arms?”

  That’s it. Courtesy be damned. I resume my seat.

  Maggie pales and opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.

  “As for you two…” Violet looks again from Cash to me. “Welcome home.” When she adds, “And thank you for your service,” I can’t tell if I hear sarcasm in her tone, or if I simply dislike her so much that I’m imagining the worst.

  After she joins her Ladies Who Brunch, I shake my head. “She hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “Still a first-class hag,” Cash agrees.

  As always, Maggie is quick to defend her sister. “You can’t blame her.”

  “Yes, we can,” Cash and I say in unison.

  “No. You can’t. Our parents’ deaths devastated her, and—”

  “Like you weren’t devastated?” I interject.

  “Yeah, but it was harder on Vee. She was a daddy’s girl through and through, and Mom doted on her. Plus, Vee was about to start high school when they died, and if ever there’s a time in a girl’s life when she needs her folks, it’s then.”

  “That doesn’t excuse her treating you like something stuck to the bottom of her shoe,” Cash grumbles.

  “She doesn’t treat me like that. She treats me like…” Maggie shrugs. “I guess she treats me like a big sister treats an annoying little sister.”

  I grab her hand. “Annoying? You? Never.”

  As I hoped, that garners a smile. “I don’t annoy you maybe. We’ve always had so much in common. But me and Vee?” She shakes her head. “We’re oil and water.”

  “You mean you’re sugar and she’s vinegar,” Cash says.

  Maggie laughs. “No. Vee’s like…well, she’s like Aunt Bea. She wants to be important and do important things. She cares about being respected in this town and she doesn’t have time for folks who don’t feel the same. I’m more like Auntie June. I want to live the simple life. Good food, good fun, and a few good friends who’ll share both with me.”

  Oh, Maggie May. In this moment, I’m bursting with love for her.

  “You know,” I muse, “I always thought the saying ‘you can’t go home again’ was a thing ’cause once you leave and come back, things have changed. But as far as I can figure, New Orleans is still New Orleans. So maybe the saying should be…why would you wanna go home again?”

  She frowns. “You’re not happy to be back?”

  “Oh, I’m happier than i
f I had good sense. And you know I’m happy to see you. What I’m not stoked about is coming face-to-face with the likes of those four.” I point to Violet’s table. “Did you know Cheryl was the first girl I ever kissed?”

  Maggie plants her elbow on the table and cups her chin in her hand. “You never told me that.”

  I nod. “It was our sophomore year, and we’d gotten coupled up after playing spin the bottle at Leroy Baker’s pool party. A party I didn’t wanna go to, I might add, but my mom made me. This was back when she thought if I tried hard enough, I’d get the kids at Braxton Academy to accept me even though everyone knew the only reason I was able to attend that snooty school was on account of her relationship with the mayor. Anyway, kissing Cheryl was like kissing an octopus.”

  Maggie’s smile is wide and genuine and not the least bit wobbly now. “How so?”

  “Lots of hands and very wet.” When she laughs, I shake my head sorrowfully. “You think it’s funny, but that experience nearly turned me off women for good. And then there’s Marlene over there.”

  “Oooh.” She rubs her hands together and wiggles her eyebrows. “What about her?”

  “She sat beside me in American history. And in case you didn’t know, teenage boys have zero control over the thing they’re packing in their pants.”

  “Oh Lord.” She covers her mouth. “Where is this going?”

  “For some reason, sweet Jesus only knows why, my thing decided to sit up and wave a happy howdy-do exactly fifteen minutes after class started each day. It was like clockwork. Marlene told the whole school I was turned on by Martha Washington and Betsy Ross.”

  Maggie chokes and reaches for her coffee, but she’s laughing too hard to take a sip.

  “And then there’s Jessa,” I say, on a roll. “She was sitting in the bleachers one day when I made the mistake of cutting through the gym to get from biology to algebra. One of the guys on the basketball team ran onto the court and depantsed me right in front of her. She saw everything, dick and balls. She started calling me Meat and Potatoes.”

  Just as I hoped, Maggie is shaking with laughter. “That’s where that nickname came from? I always wondered.”

  I make a face. “So my point is…why would you wanna go home again?”

  She reaches over to pat my shoulder. “Because home is where the people who love you live. Forget about them.” She hitches a thumb toward the table in the corner. “They aren’t worth the dirt on your shoes.”

  My plan worked. She no longer feels bad about not being invited to join Violet and the Mean Girls.

  “In fact,” she continues, draining the last of her coffee, “let’s get this show on the road. Fortune-tellers of Jackson Square, here we come!”

  The three of us are almost out the door when Violet turns and calls to Maggie, “The aunts are having tea at one o’clock next Saturday. You should bring these two.” She indicates me and Cash with a flick of her fingers. “I’m sure Aunt Bea and Auntie June would get a kick out of seeing the three of you thick as thieves again.”

  “We’ll see,” Maggie tells her. And then she hastily shoves open the door.

  Once we’re out on the sidewalk heading toward Jackson Square, it’s clear that everyone in The Quarter knows Maggie. People shout her name. In true New Orleans fashion, they call, “Where y’at?” Which means, How are you? How are your kinfolk doing? How are you liking this weather? And a dozen other inane, yet totally sincere, conversational starters. Who knew two little words could encompass so much?

  When we turn down St. Ann Street, an old woman selling paintings on the corner waves Maggie over. Cash uses the opportunity to hang back, grabbing my arm.

  I glance at him. “What’s up?”

  “Why’d you take a woman home from Maggie’s bar the other night?” he asks.

  I’m sure my confusion shows on my face. “I didn’t take her home. Or weren’t you listening? And even if I had, what’s it to you?”

  “Look, I know the years have been good to you.” There’s something funky going on with his expression, but damned if I can figure out what it is. “I know women throw themselves at your feet, and you’re making up for all the sumpin’-sumpin’ you missed out on in high school. But would it kill you to lay off that whole Lothario shtick for a while? I don’t want Maggie thinking you’ve turned into a total manwhore.”

  Okay, now I’m not only confused, I’m pissed. “You’re one to talk. How many women have you slept with over the years, huh?”

  “Yeah, but not while Maggie’s watching. I think we need to play it cool. Keep our noses clean and our dicks dry. This whole reunion is brand-new. It’s fragile. I don’t want anything to fuck it up.”

  I want to tell him Maggie doesn’t give a good goddamn who I go home with. But I’m so happy to hear that he’s worried enough about screwing up his chances with her that he wants both of us to be on our best behavior that I keep my mouth shut.

  Chapter Eight

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Things change…

  At least that’s what I’ve always heard. But one of the nice things about New Orleans is that it doesn’t.

  Jackson Square is exactly as I remember it, bookended by the lush greenery of Washington Artillery Park and the imposing triple steeples of St. Louis Cathedral. It’s an open-air gallery where artists hock their wares to tourists and locals alike, shouting their prices above the din of a brass band playing for spare change.

  At night, the stray cats of the Big Easy rendezvous here. They climb the trunks of the trees, crouch in the gutters, and perch atop the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the Place d’Armes, their eyes glinting inside the moon shadows, their tails held straight and proud. Some folks say they commune with the ghosts of the criminals and runaway slaves who died in public executions on this very spot. Others say they’re the familiars of the witches who still walk the streets of this city.

  In this manic, modern world, most places have lost their magic. New Orleans isn’t one of them. Once the sun sets, it’s as if you can feel the wispy presence of things just beyond our world. And the tales of Voodoo priestesses and vampire kings—things that sound farfetched anywhere else—seem as if, here, they might be true.

  Luckily, the spine-chilling effects of Jackson Square vanish during the day. Now the place is crawling with shoppers and people out for a stroll. The smells of spicy roux from the surrounding restaurants mixes with the grassy-sweet aroma of the carriage mules lined up by the fence. In the middle of all the hubbub, bleary-eyed fortune-tellers of every kind wait for fools to lay down their roll.

  “So what do you think?” Maggie rubs her hands together. “Tarot card reader? Palm reader? Or aura reader?”

  “Let’s give the poor tarot card readers a break,” Luc says. “They’re probably still recovering from Cash’s last visit.”

  “Palm reader?” Maggie suggests hopefully. Even though she’s a woman now, there’s a young girl’s excitement in her eyes. She’s always been partial to the fanciful side of things. Always leaned toward a belief in hocus-pocus.

  I blame it on her early immersion in the Wizarding World.

  “You first.” Luc motions her toward the fortune-teller, not trying to hide his dopey grin. One glimpse of the joy on his face is enough to chase away any doubts I had about being back here. This is what he needs.

  Hell, it’s what we both need.

  Maggie takes a seat, and I tilt my head back, letting sunbeams fall on my face. My brain doesn’t hurt today. Or…it hurts only a little.

  “Coming back here is gonna be good for you,” Luc says.

  Most people tell me I’m hard to read, but to Luc, I’ve always been as transparent as glass. That’s never scared me before because I’ve never had anything to hide.

  It scares me now.

  “You’re already getting better,” he continues. “I can tell.”

  I drop my chin when a shadow falls over me. Not sure if it’s his words or th
e cloud that’s drifting across the sun.

  “Fingers crossed,” I say, watching the palm reader take the twenty-dollar bill I gave to Maggie.

  If central casting ever calls me for a recommendation for someone to play the role of a quintessential Roma fortune-teller, I’ll be able to say I know just the woman. “Madame LaRouche” is wearing a colorful scarf over her long, black hair. Bangles and bracelets line her forearms. And smudged beneath her eyes is enough black eyeliner to make Captain Jack Sparrow proud.

  She gestures for Maggie’s hands. “What do you seek this day, my child?” Her low, scratchy voice is either fake and done for effect, or real and the result of a two-pack-a-day habit.

  “I want to know if my bar will survive Carnival intact,” Maggie says. “I want to know if I’m making the best financial decisions.” She glances over her shoulder at me, then her eyes swing to Luc, and she shifts uncomfortably.

  “Need some privacy?” Luc asks.

  “No.” She shakes her head. Even so, her voice is quieter during this next part. “I want to know if there’s romance in my future.”

  I swallow. Good thing my head isn’t aching, because my heart hurts like hell. Not sure I’d be able to survive both.

  “Let’s see what we see.” Madame LaRouche turns Maggie’s hand over and studies the lines on her palm.

  Luc is standing beside me with his arms crossed, smiling down at Maggie like a big, benevolent bodyguard. When he glances my way, I roll my eyes. He elbows me, telling me without words that I need to keep my trap shut and let Maggie enjoy this ridiculous charade.

  “I don’t see any misfortune in areas of real estate,” Madame LaRouche muses, pulling Maggie’s hand closer to her face. “So I think your bar should be fine.” She flattens Maggie’s fingers and pretends to find something new to examine. “As for the financial decisions you’re making, they seem to be the right ones. I see prosperity in your future.”

  “Good.” Maggie nods, her shoulders sagging in relief.

  “But now look at this.” Madame LaRouche points to one of the lines on Maggie’s palm. “This is your love line. It’s long and strong, and yet it branches. See that?”