Maggie bends her head to inspect the spot. “What’s it mean?” Her voice is breathless. She’s caught in LaRouche’s thrall.
“Could be two things,” LaRouche says. “Could be you’ll have a great love in your life, but your journey together will not be smooth.”
Despite knowing this is complete and utter bullshit, I feel my heart rabbit out in my chest. My lungs compress until no air gets in. So much for my military training and the ability to regulate my heart rate and my breathing.
“Or?” Maggie prompts.
“Or it could mean your great love will be split in two.”
“Split in two? How?”
LaRouche shrugs. “Impossible to say.”
Of course it is. The vaguer the better. This time I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t pop out of my head and go bouncing across the ground.
The fortune-teller curls Maggie’s fingers closed and reaches across the table to pat her cheek. “But don’t fear, child. Once you deal with your past, once you let go of all those things that weigh your heart down with guilt and shame, you’ll find happiness. I see that clearly.”
Maggie stills. LaRouche’s ambiguous declarations about the past—which, of course, is part of her whole schtick—have obviously hit a soft spot.
I frown. All the things that weigh down Maggie’s heart with guilt and shame? I know she feels guilty about what happened to her parents, but is there something more? Not that night in the swamp, surely. None of that was her fault. It was my fault. If I hadn’t run off and left her and Luc to—
“Thank you, Madame LaRouche.” Maggie cuts into my thoughts when she pushes out of the chair. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s a bit wild-eyed.
“This was your idea.” Luc gives me a shove toward the abandoned seat. “So you’re next.”
Pulling an Andrew Jackson from my wallet, I slide the bill across the table. The fortune-teller is quick to shove it into her bra. No backsies.
“And what is it you seek?” she asks me.
“Just tell me what you see.” I’m not about to make her job easy on her. I lay my hands atop the table, palms up.
Madame LaRouche narrows her eyes, and I notice for the first time that beneath all that khol eyeliner, her irises are the most amazing shade of turquoise. When she tilts her head to the side, they catch the sunlight and sparkle eerily.
“As you wish.” She takes my hand and pulls it toward her face. Her fingers are dry and callused. They skim over my palm with a featherlight touch.
“I see you are a man of contradictions,” she says. “You have seen your fair share of hardship and you will see more ahead. You are struggling with something. And I see—”
She cuts herself off and sits back. Sparing Luc and Maggie a quick glance, she leans forward and whispers, “Do you want me to tell you what else I see?”
I don’t believe in this baloney. Not at all. And yet I yank my hand away. “Nope. That’ll do it for me.”
“Oh, come on!” Maggie cries. “That was nothing! You have to let her finish!”
“Luc’s turn.” Vacating the seat, I give Luc a slap on the back.
“No, thanks.” He shakes his head. “No disrespect to you, Madame LaRouche, but I reckon I’ll choose my own fate.”
The fortune-teller dips her head in acknowledgment.
Maggie crosses her arms and feigns a charming pout. It’s a skill passed down from Southern momma to Southern daughter along with the secret of good shapewear. “Y’all are no fun,” she harrumphs.
“Come on, Maggie May.” Luc tosses an arm across her shoulders and steers her into the heart of the French Quarter. “Let’s go help Cash pick out his countertops.”
I glance back and find LaRouche watching me closely. When she blows me a kiss, I turn away, chills streaking up my arms.
Chapter Nine
______________________________________
Maggie
It just goes to show, you don’t know what the future will hold.
A week ago, I thought I’d never see Cash or Luc again. Now here I am headed toward Cash’s house.
This afternoon, when he asked if he and Luc could attend Jelly Bean’s second line with me, I couldn’t make myself say no despite not wanting to give him leave to think he could just insert himself back into my life without a word of explanation as to why he left—no, that Dear Jane letter doesn’t count as ‘a word’ even though it contained seven of them. I blame my quick acquiescence on feeling like a teenager when I’m with them. Everything is exciting and new. Like the world is filled with possibility and fun.
Even countertop shopping was pure entertainment.
When Luc and I approved of the pretty slab of Creole marble quarried from Pickens County, Georgia, Cash immediately pulled out his wallet and started counting bills. Luc placed a staying hand on his arm and proceeded to haggle with the seller. In the Big Easy, everything’s negotiable.
Cash nearly blew a gasket when it looked like Luc might lose him the deal. But in the end, Luc whittled the seller down five hundred dollars and secured storage for the marble at the seller’s warehouse until he and Cash are ready to install it.
At first acquaintance, Luc comes off as an unobtrusive guy. Not so much meek and mild, but quiet. Self-effacing. And yet he has a particular brand of toughness I’ve only ever seen in other men of his ilk. Men who’ve come from the place where murky waters run through tall marsh grass. Where gators growl and bobcats howl.
In contrast, Cash is brazen and brash. A typical New Jerseyan who talks a big talk and walks a big walk—I’ve never known him to run from a fight or back down from a dare. But beneath all that bull crap and bluster is a heart as big and sweet as a watermelon. He would’ve happily paid the marble seller his above-market price and not batted an eyelash.
I feel a rush of old affection for the boys I once knew and the men they’ve become. Of course, that’s immediately followed by a big dose of wary skepticism.
If Cash refuses to face the past, would I be crazy to consider opening myself up for a future? If he won’t explain what happened back then, how can I assure myself the same thing won’t happen again?
I don’t think I can live through that pain a second time.
After blowing out a shaky breath, I rake in a lungful of sultry evening air and am accosted by the scents of The Quarter: wisteria, filé powder, and fried okra. When a page from a newspaper tumbles by on the breeze, I don’t think twice before bending to snag it. Tossing it into the can on the corner, I’m reminded of Cash’s comment about my genial manners.
I used to think he teased me about such things because he found me charming. Now? I’m not so sure. Maybe he thinks I’m more silly than charming. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he left. Because I was getting too serious, and leaving was easier than telling a sixteen-year-old girl that he found her childish and foolish.
“Evenin’, Maggie.”
I smile at Vernon. He’s in his usual spot, a lawn chair situated beside the last step of his stoop. Earl told me that, long ago, Vernon was one of The Quarter’s most famous artists. But arthritis has stiffened his joints and curled his hands.
“Evening, Vernon. I stopped by the candy shop on Decatur when I knew I was headed this way.” I pull a napkin-wrapped praline from my purse and carefully hand it to him. “I know hazelnut is your favorite.”
His eyes are dulled by cataracts, but his smile is as bright as ever. “You’re too good to me, Maggie,” he says.
“Nonsense,” I tell him. “Just looking out for your sweet tooth. Wouldn’t want it to fall out on account of neglect.”
He eagerly takes a bite of praline, makes a few yummy noises, and then asks, “Where ya headed lookin’ so fine?”
“To meet some old friends,” I tell him, adjusting my hat at a jaunty angle. “Then we’re going to Jelly Bean’s second line. You coming?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head, making the few fine wisps of white hair atop his liver-spotted scalp dance. “Hi
ps and knees are hurtin’ too bad tonight. But you lift a drink and do a dance for me in Jelly Bean’s honor, will ya?”
“Done and done,” I assure him. “Have a good night, Vernon.”
“You too, sweetheart.”
Moving up the street, I make a left onto Orleans Avenue. As soon as I do, my steps falter.
There he is.
Sitting on his front stoop.
The boy I loved who’s grown into a man I don’t really know.
He’s still dressed in faded jeans and work boots. But he’s upped his game for the occasion and paired them with a somber black button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled over his forearms, revealing the muscles there, the thick, snaking veins.
I have no idea why, but I’ve always had a thing for that part of a man’s anatomy. And Cash’s forearms are particularly good specimens. They match the rest of his big, lean physique. Strip him naked and extend his arms and legs until he resembles a human X, and he could grace the pages of an anatomy book.
Not that he’s movie star material or anything. I don’t want to give that impression.
With his scars and his nose that lists a little to the left, his face is more compelling than classically handsome. And his green eyes crinkle at the corners, proof that he’s already seen too much sun in his young life.
Still, there’s no denying he has a quality about him. A…lure. He draws people in against their will.
He’s sucking on a toothpick. When he sees me coming, it makes a slow, deliberate journey from one side of his mouth to the other. His eyebrows climb up his forehead before he pulls out the toothpick and whistles. “Damn, woman. Look at you.”
My cheeks heat as I glance down at my black knee-length dress. The waist is fitted, the skirt flairs prettily, but it’s the sweetheart neckline that really does the trick. Not that I’m huge on top or anything, but the cut of the dress shows off the remarkably average amount I do have.
I’ve paired the dress with red stacked heels. The shoes make my legs look longer than they are and raise me a good four inches into the air.
So, okay. I might have gone overboard with the outfit. But I wanted to see Cash’s reaction. I wanted to force a reaction.
I need to know how he feels about me. I need to know what he wants from me. I need… Dang it! I need him to look me in the eye and tell me why he ran away! I need to know what happened to make him break my heart!
Taking a seat next to him on the stoop, I demurely cross my ankles on the step below so I don’t give the group of tourists walking down the opposite sidewalk a free peep show of my panties. After adjusting the bobby pin holding my hat in place, I prove I’m a lily-livered cur when I don’t ask him any of the questions screaming through my head and instead go with, “So how’d you spend the rest of your afternoon?”
“Steamed off old wallpaper in one of the bedrooms,” he says. “How about you?”
“Took Yard for a walk along the river and played fetch until I thought my arm would fall off. Then Jean-Pierre came over and helped himself to two slices of the doberge cake one of my bar patrons brought me last night. I swear that man’s half cow and has four stomachs. Beats me how he stays so skinny.”
Cash eyes me for a long moment. “You two are close, aren’t you?”
“He’s one of my best friends.”
“Just friends?”
“I’d marry him tomorrow if he had any inclination toward women,” I admit with a chuckle.
“Gay?” Cash cants his head. “Too bad for you, then, huh?”
“You think so?”
A line forms in the middle of his forehead. “Don’t you?”
I wish I could see inside his brain. I wish I knew what he was thinking. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Or maybe not. Honestly, I don’t have time for much of anything besides the bar.”
“Does that make you happy?”
“What? Not having time for anything besides the bar?” When he nods, I admit, “I guess so.” Then I realize, “Yeah. I mean, I like celebrating people’s ups and providing comfort when they’re down. It’s as good a life as any and probably a far sight better than most.”
He seems to chew on that for a while. Then he asks, “What about the future?”
My throat feels full and tight. I glance down at the infinity symbol tattooed on the inside of my wrist. The future. My destiny. Which way my stars will align.
Cash used to draw that sideways eight on my skin and promise to love me to infinity and back again. The day after he asked me to prom, I got the ink from a tattoo artist who didn’t much care that I was underage as long as I paid him double for the artwork. I remember feeling daring and reckless. I mistakenly thought Cash meant what he said.
He sees what’s caught my attention. “I’m surprised Miss Bea didn’t make you get this thing lasered off.” He gently takes my wrist into his lap so he can rub a callused thumb over the tattoo.
Chills follow the path of his finger. Parts of me I’d forgotten existed are suddenly jolted awake, and I’m reminded of our first kiss.
We were sitting on Aunt Bea’s front porch swing when he turned to me and took my face in his hands. His lips were warm and soft, but unhesitating. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I’d never been kissed before. But he showed me the way.
After he pulled back, he kept his hands on my face, one thumb skimming over my chin. “Hey, Maggie,” he said with an impish grin, his warm breath feathering across my tingling lips and making me aware of unknown parts of myself.
As far as first kisses go, it was one for the record books.
“She still badgers me about it every chance she gets.” My voice is husky from his touch and the nearness of that precious memory.
“Then why do you still have it?”
I’m tempted to admit that at first I told myself I’d keep the tattoo until the time came when I fell out of love with him. Then, when I realized enough time didn’t exist for that to happen, I kept it because it reminded me that at one time I was someone’s everything. But instead, what comes out of my mouth is, “You know me. I’m sentimental.”
Putting my hand back in my lap, he goes back to his original question. “So? The future?”
I twist my lips. “I guess if I believe Madame LaRouche, I’ll have some great love and be happy.”
When he smiles, I feel it all the way to my toes.
“What about you?” I ask. “What do you see for yourself?”
He’s quiet for a second. Then, “Suppose all I’m looking forward to in the future is to live.” He nods. “Yeah, some life will do me just fine.”
I swallow and try to imagine all he’s seen and done over the years, all the danger and death he’s undoubtedly experienced. And the pain…
My eyes ping to the scar above his temple. How much pain has he suffered? How much pain is he still suffering? Does he worry his head injury will get worse instead of better? It that why all he wants out of life is life?
It’s enough to make my heart ache something fierce.
The sun is setting in the west, painting the sky above it in vibrant pastels. I appreciate how the waning light gives his complexion a rosy glow. But the illusion is ruined when his brow pinches and he grabs the flask from his back pocket.
I didn’t see him take a drink all morning—even though the flask was clearly visible in its usual spot. But the minute I sat next to him on the step, I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“It’s hurting, huh?”
When he looks at me questioningly, I point to his head.
He hitches one shoulder. “What doesn’t kill me makes me stranger, right?”
“You mean stronger?”
Is he getting his words mixed up? The alarm must show on my face because he winks. “Yeah. That too. But nothing much is normal about me anymore. Want to warn you of that right now.”
I battle the urge to take him in my arms and run my fingers through his hair. I want to soothe him, comfort him, love him. Old habits, old instincts
, are hard to break.
“You know how noisy this thing will be, right?” I say. “Maybe you shouldn’t come.”
“I want to.”
“But your headache—”
“Maggie,” he interrupts. “I want to come. I’ll take any chance I can to take my mind off this stupid head thing.”
I nod even though I’m unconvinced. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
He laughs humorlessly. “Why the hell would you want to after the way I left everything?”
And there it is. The opening I’ve been waiting for.
But before I can get a word out, the familiar growl of an engine catches my attention. Luc is coming down the street in the same 1979 pickup truck he drove in high school. It was his father’s pride and joy. Helene Dubois, Luc’s mother, refused to sell it after her husband’s death. Instead, as Luc tells it, she sometimes went hungry to make sure she could pay for its upkeep until he got old enough to drive it.
Youthful laughter sounds in my ears, but I realize it’s an auditory hallucination. An echo from the past. The truck brings back so many good memories, I can’t help but smile.
Luc parks next to the curb and cuts the engine. When he hops out, I notice his hair is still damp from a recent shower.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim. “The four-wheeled Smurf rides again!”
Cash gave Luc’s truck the nickname in honor of its paint job. It’s the exact color of the cartoon characters—except for the driver’s-side rear panel. That’s primer gray.
Luc pats Smurf’s hood as he rounds it. “Mom’s been storing him in her garage. All I had to do was replace his spark plugs and filters, and he fired right up. Now, stand up, Maggie May. Lemme get a gander at you.”
I dutifully stand and shake out my skirt. After doing a pirouette, I strike a pose, one hand on my hip, the other up by my head.
Luc whistles. “Can I just say, hubba-hubba?”
I laugh and curtsy. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”
Unlike Cash, who cultivates an I-don’t-give-a-crap look, Luc is wearing jeans paired with a white undershirt and a black sports coat. Nothing too flashy, but on his middleweight boxer’s frame, it looks effortlessly chic.
Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1 Page 8
