Chills race up my arms at his nearness. “You’re not supposed to bring a date,” I tell him. “That’s the whole point. You’re a bachelor.”
“Please?” he coaxes with a grin. “I could use the moral support.”
It’s the please that does it.
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s the smile that does it. The smile and the thought that maybe, just maybe, Aunt Bea’s soiree will afford me the opportunity—and the courage—to ask him the thing that needs asking.
“Pick me up at seven.” I point to his nose. “And don’t be late.”
Chapter Nineteen
______________________________________
Luc
True friendship means showing your love and support during times of trouble.
I keep having to remind myself of that.
“Hey, Cash!” I push through his open front door. “You were right! That guy has amazing reclaimed wood for sale. I saw some old barn doors I think would be great for—”
I cut myself off when I see he’s not in the living room or dining room or kitchen. I check the time on my watch. Eighteen hundred. He’s supposed to pick up Maggie in an hour.
Making my way down the hall to the bathroom, I expect to see him shaving and getting ready to sell himself to one of Miss Bea’s handsy friends. (Poor Cash. I reckon it’s true what they say. A guy will do anything for love.) But the door is open, and he isn’t at the sink or stepping out of the shower. He’s crumpled beside the toilet.
“Cash!” I rush to his side. Did he fall? Hit his head? Have a brain bleed?
Then I see the empty bottle of Gentleman Jack on the floor and the vomit in the toilet. My fear forges itself into a sharp blade of anger. It stabs into me as I nudge him with the toe of my boot, not exactly being gentle about it.
“Get up,” I grumble. “Get in the shower. You smell so bad you’re making my eyes burn.” Green Berets are not known for being particularly careful of each other’s feelings.
“I’m sick,” he slurs.
“You’re drunk.” I grind my teeth so hard my molars ache. “How could you do this? Maggie May is expecting you. Miss Bea is depending on you.”
He squeezes his eyes closed even though he’s yet to look at me. “My brain is a bonfire of pain.” Only, when he says it, it sounds more like my bray is a bonfir of pay.
As if to prove his point, he rubs at the scar above his temple. His arm is all loose and uncoordinated.
A drop of pity rains down on me, but then I remind myself that a lot of men have suffered head injuries and have dealt with chronic pain. They didn’t become fall-down drunks.
“Get up.” I nudge him again. “We’ll pour coffee down your damn gullet for the next hour and hope that sobers you up enough to—”
“No.” He shakes his head, then winces like the movement hurts. “Can’t.” He opens one eye to peer at me blearily. “You go, Luc.”
“Oh, no. You’re not doing this to me again. You’re not doing this to her again.”
“Luc.” He lifts his head, and dammit! He’s crying. Big old crocodile tears roll down his cheeks to get stuck in his beard stubble. “Please, go. I’m too sick. I hurt too much.”
I look away, an angry muscle ticking in my jaw. I try to come up with a good reason why I shouldn’t beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of him.
Oh, right. He’s injured. He’s drunk. Not to mention, he’s my best friend.
“Where am I supposed to get a tux at this hour?” I demand.
“Wear mine.” He points to the garment bag hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door.
I shake my head. “It won’t fit.”
“Got it a little big.”
I frown. “Why in hell would you do that?”
“Luc? Please. Will you go?”
I curse under my breath even as I pull my shirt over my head and twist on the shower. I’ve been reading up on alcoholism and all the major suck that goes with it. I know, in this situation, I’m not supposed to enable him. I’m supposed to stand by and let him reap the whirlwind of consequences brought on by his decision to drink.
If it wasn’t for Maggie, that’s exactly what I’d do.
“I’m doing this for her,” I tell him angrily. “Not for you, you self-pitying sonofabitch.”
“Thank you.” He lies back down beside the toilet, slurring something that sounds vaguely like, “The corsage is in the refrigerator.”
Hopping in the shower, I give myself a vigorous scrubbing while simultaneously calling him every dirty name I can think of. Fifty minutes later, I’m shaved, wearing an ill-fitting tux, and standing in front of the gate leading to Maggie’s courtyard.
This feels way too familiar.
Grabbing my cell phone from my pocket, I pull up my Favorites list. (I have exactly ten people on it: Mom, Maggie, Cash, and seven of the guys from my unit.) But before I can call her so she can come open the gate, a couple walks through and holds it wide for me.
Emerging from the tunnel, I stare at the water fountain in the center of the courtyard, attempting to let the cool of the shadows and the soothing tinkle of water work as balms on my chafed nerves.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to walk up those stairs and see the disappointment on her face. Not again.
But I’m nothing if not a man of my word.
Straightening my shoulders, I head for the steps. (If I take them a touch slowly, I don’t think you can blame me.) My hand hovers for a moment at her door. Then I knock using the seven-note “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm. It sounds a lot more cheerful than I feel.
The instant she opens the door, I’m struck by two things. One, I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful. She’s wearing a sky-blue ball gown that matches her eyes, and between her breasts rests the heart-shaped locket I gave her. Two, instead of looking surprised and disappointed when she sees me, her expression is resigned.
“Wow. Talk about déjà vu,” she says.
“Sorry, Maggie May.”
Her eyes soften. “Nothing for you to be sorry about, Luc. Let me guess. He’s drunk?”
I nod. “I was in Slidell all afternoon, so I wasn’t ’round to keep an eye on him.”
“He’s a grown man. He should be keeping an eye on himself.”
A sick feeling twists in my stomach. “You and I both know that’s not what’s happening.”
“Don’t we just?” Her tone is as somber as dirt over a fresh grave. “Okay, what do you say we get out of these fancy duds, change into sweatpants, and spend the rest of the evening eating our feelings?”
I laugh, but it’s devoid of humor. “I’d say that sounds like heaven, but we can’t leave Miss Bea in the lurch.”
“No.” She sighs. “I guess we can’t. Let me grab my clutch.”
Ten minutes later, we’re leaving the French Quarter and heading for the Garden District. She’s quiet. Too quiet.
“You look beautiful tonight,” I say to break the silence. Usually, I’m okay with a lack of conversation. But I can tell her head is spinning. And not in a good way. “Cash will be sorry he missed seeing you like this.”
She’s gazing out of Smurf’s passenger-side window at the palm trees on Canal Street. “You think? I’m not sure he was ever sorry he missed seeing me in that red sequined prom dress. I don’t know why tonight would be any different.”
“He was sorry he missed it,” I assure her.
“Stop speaking for him, Luc. Stop making excuses for him. And stop coming to his rescue.”
Yeah. Except… “I don’t do it for him, Maggie May.”
She hits me with those bluer-than-blue eyes, her brow furrowed. Then she blinks and looks away. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
“Sure.” I shrug, game for anything if it’ll wipe that hurt expression off her face. “Whatcha wanna talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know… Lauren maybe? What did you think of her?”
“She seems nice,” I admit. Although truthfully, I haven’t given
Lauren a thought since the dinner party. “I can see why you like her.”
“No bad butt or weird boobs?”
“I tried not to look.”
She snorts. “Baloney.”
I lift an eyebrow in her direction.
“Give me a little credit,” she says. “You’re a man. Lauren’s a pretty woman. Looking at her is programmed into your DNA.”
“Fine. I looked. She is very pretty. But, Maggie May, I’m still not interested.”
“For heaven’s sake, why? You’re perfect boyfriend material, handsome and talented and nice.”
I preen like a show dog until she gets to the end. “What did I tell you about calling me nice?”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ve got to get you over this good-guy stigma so you can start using it to your advantage.”
“How ’bout you leave the matchmaking to Miss Bea’s deep-pocketed friends, huh? At least for tonight.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “I have to say, I am looking forward to seeing you up on that stage.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “There’s a stage?”
“Of course. You think Aunt Bea would skimp on an auction? A stage is a must. All the better to ogle you, my dear.”
“Oh God.”
“You’re going to cause a riot.” She snickers and claps her hands.
Visions of that Saturday tea (but raised to the power of ten) dance through my head. I should’ve worn football pads. And a helmet. And a cup.
“At least promise me a dance.” I give her my most desperate look. “That way I’ll be assured a reprieve at some point during the evening.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll save the first and the last dance for you. That way we can start out by introducing you slowly.”
“Like a lobster in a pot getting the heat turned up under its ass so it doesn’t realize it’s getting cooked?” I ask.
“Exactly.” Her giggle is devious. “And then, all night long, while your virility is being evaluated, you can look forward to ending it all in my nonjudgmental, non-ass-grabby hands.”
“Shake on it.” I take one hand off the wheel to offer it to her.
Her fingers are cool and delicate compared to mine. And obviously, I’m imagining things, but I swear she holds on longer than is necessary.
Chapter Twenty
______________________________________
Maggie
Beauty is found in the heart, not the face.
While I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment, at a bachelor action, a beautiful face comes in quite handy. Especially for raising funds for charity.
“That man is going to fetch a pretty penny for the Daughters of City Health Foundation,” Aunt Bea says from my elbow.
Her ballroom is completely transformed from the day of the tea. It looks like Halloween threw up in here. If Halloween were a fancy lady who buys only the best.
The walls are decked in black bunting. The tables and the catwalk stage are draped in glittery black velvet. Big bouquets of black, white, and orange balloons float from the centers of each table, and huge pots of marigolds, chrysanthemums, and goldenrod stand sentry in the corners of the room. Their sweet smells don’t stand a chance against so much high-dollar perfume.
Carved jack-o’-lanterns grin from their perches on pedestals ringing the space. The champagne fountain is flowing. The roving waiters are plying their hors d’oeuvres. And the members of the jazz band up onstage are dressed like zombies. But, man, can those zombies wail. We’re marching toward the end of the third hour of the ball, and they’ve stopped to take a break only once.
Just as I suspected, Luc was descended upon en masse the moment he walked through the door. It skeeves me out that some of the girls who wouldn’t give him a second look in high school are the same ones throwing themselves at him tonight. But he’s a good sport about it all.
Of course he is. He’s Luc.
“You saved the best for last, Aunt Bea.” I motion with my chin toward Luc as he climbs the stage’s stairs.
The tuxedo coat is a smidge too small, but his athletic build allows him to pull it off. Now, the too-short pants? That’s another matter. When I teased him about it earlier, he gave me a wry smile. “Isn’t that how the hipsters do it?” he asked. “Next thing you know, I’ll be sporting a man bun and wearing ironic T-shirts.”
“God help us.” I giggled, secretly thinking that if anyone could pull off that look, it would be him. Because, in truth, he could pretty much pull off any look.
“And what happened to Cash?” Aunt Bea asks now.
“He had something come up.” My heart cringes as the words come out of my mouth. I hate lying to her, but I don’t feel it’s my place to air Cash’s dirty laundry.
“Hmm,” she hums. “Well, at least Luc was good enough to fill in. But I suppose that has more to do with you than it does with Cash.”
With that parting shot, she sashays over to the podium beside the stage. In a ball gown like the one she’s wearing, all black with a rhinestone bodice and a long, chiffon skirt, any movement looks like a sashay.
I try to puzzle out what she meant, but I get distracted once the band switches from a feisty rendition of “Werewolves of London” to an even feistier cover of “It’s Raining Men.” That’s the cue to the audience to stop dancing and turn their attention toward the stage.
A waiter in the corner clicks on a spotlight and aims it Luc’s way, making Luc blink against the glare. Then Luc obligingly pastes on a megawatt smile and I swear I hear a communal gasp from the audience.
Firming his shoulders, he begins walking the length of the stage. Catcalls and wolf whistles accompany his progress, and the smooth, dulcet tones of Aunt Bea’s voice echo from the sound system.
“Our final bachelor tonight is a true-blue hometown hero. After graduating from Braxton Academy, Lucien Dubois joined the army’s special-forces unit. He earned the rank of master sergeant in the Green Berets and is now back home to woo the women of New Orleans.
“Luc enjoys the pristine beauty of our great state. His favorite pastimes are fishing and poling his pirogue on the bayou. He plays guitar, writes poetry and music, and can whip up a mean morning omelet.
“I think he’s quite a catch, don’t y’all? And remember, not only will your money buy one night on the town with this exceptionally handsome young man, but it will also go to a wonderful cause. Show your support for the Daughters of City Health Foundation by opening up those pocketbooks and wallets one last time. Let’s start the bidding at two hundred dollars. Do I hear two hundred?”
With that, the auction begins. Luc plays along, spinning and doing dance moves that make the audience scream for more. The bids come in fast and furious, but Aunt Bea has no trouble keeping up. In fact, by her flushed cheeks, I can tell she’s enjoying herself. The annual Halloween ball and bachelor auction is the one time of year she lets herself be a bit bawdy.
“Five thousand dollars, going once.” She looks around the room after six full minutes of bidding. “Going twice.” She holds up a gavel and slams it down. “Sold! To Sally Renee Rutherford for five thousand dollars! Whew!” She acts like she’s wiping a bead of sweat from her brow even though everyone knows she never sweats. “That was a fun one! Now, Mr. Dubois, please present your date with her corsage. The next dance is all yours.”
Aunt Bea steps away from the podium at the same time Luc descends from the stage. He walks over to Sally Renee Rutherford, a bottle blonde with a figure that came straight from the plastic surgeon’s office, and presents her with the corsage. After he slips the flowers on her wrist and bends to kiss her hand, he sweeps her into a waltz worthy of the history of this house and this ballroom.
I can’t help but snort. Sally Renee is looking at Luc like she’s the cat who ate the canary and is sharpening her claws for more.
“That boy’s got no idea what he signed himself up for, does he?” Auntie June has made her way to my side. I can tell by the sparkle in her
eye and the way she keeps hoisting up the neckline on her red ball gown that she’s tipsy. She’s always had a weakness for fine champagne, and Aunt Bea serves only the best.
“He can handle himself,” I assure her.
“So you say. But he’s never met the likes of Sally Renee before. You know how she came by her money, don’t you?”
“No.” I frown. “Who is she? She’s not from around here.”
“Born and raised in Opelousas. She came down to work as a nail technician in Louisa Dandridge’s salon.”
“A nail technician can afford a five-thousand-dollar bachelor?” I lift my eyebrows. “Apparently, I’m in the wrong business.”
“She was only a nail tech at Louisa’s for three months. The instant Old Man Rutherford came in for a haircut, Sally Renee set her sights on him. She had him shackled quicker than you can spit.”
“You mean Old Man Silas Rutherford? The one who lives two streets over?”
“Lived two streets over,” Auntie June corrects. “He died three months ago. Croaked in the middle of a randy bout of morning lovin’, if you believe the gossip.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “When the paramedics found him, there was nothing between him and the good Lord but a smile.”
I make a retching noise. Old Man Rutherford had more liver spots than the Mississippi has mud. “Gee, thanks, Auntie June,” I grumble. “I’ll need brain bleach to clean that image from my mind.”
She looks affronted. “What? You think us old folks shouldn’t be allowed to butter our biscuits?”
“Is there someone buttering your biscuit?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Psshhh.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t have the time or the inclination for a man. When you get to be my age, they’re not worth the trouble anyway. You know that saying about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks? Well, it’s true. And besides, I can butter my own biscuit, please and thank you.”
“Oh my Lord!” I bite by bottom lip because I’m laughing so hard folks are starting to stare. “Have you ever heard of TMI, Auntie June?”
Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1 Page 18
