Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  A small smile plays at his mouth. “I think Sally and I make sure to take care of each other’s itches.”

  “I looked her up online, you know. She’s a real catch.” In case he’s not picking up on the sarcasm I’m laying down, I add, “You’ll plug any sticky hole you find, won’t you?”

  He tugs on his ear, proof I’ve torqued him off.

  Good. Now we’re even.

  “Why d’ya care, man? You’ve plugged twice as many sticky holes as I have.” He makes a face. “Dammit! Now you got me talking like you, and it’s disgusting.”

  “You upset Maggie.” I stare at him. Hard.

  He sighs and shakes his head. “Maggie May thinks she knows what’s best for me, and no doubt Sally Renee doesn’t fall into that category. But it’s none of her business. Just like it’s none of yours.”

  While I silently fume, he studies me like he’s trying to figure me out. Ha! Good luck with that. Most days I can’t figure myself out.

  After a while, he sighs. “Look, man, I know you’re trying to be the good guy with Maggie May. I know you don’t wanna saddle her with your injury or your pain or your shitty attitude. But becoming a sexual anorexic doesn’t suit you. You should tell her how you still feel about her. Tell her about your plan to hold off on starting anything up until you know whether you’ll get better. And you sure as shit should tell her why you left. It’s time.”

  Just the thought makes my mouth go bone-dry. “I can’t.”

  He tosses his hands in the air. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Because if I tell her the truth about all that, she’ll follow me around like a damned puppy until I give in to her.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Yes.”

  He rakes a hand through his hair, making the front whorl stick up. “I don’t get it.”

  “What we had…” I stare at the far wall. Behind it is a bedroom. A sweet space that could someday be used for a nursery. I can picture it perfectly and a lump forms in my throat. “What we had was perfect. Don’t want to tarnish the memory of that with what I am now.”

  Damn. That sounds so made-for-television Lifetime movie-worthy.

  “It can be perfect again,” he declares adamantly. “Perfect doesn’t mean no sickness or problems. Perfect can be hard and messy and ugly.”

  “I won’t pull her into this thing with me, Luc.”

  “Ever consider she wants you to?”

  “I don’t care what she wants. I know what’s best.” I hold up a hand when he opens his mouth to argue. “I hope you don’t need anything more out of this case, since the motherfucker is closed.”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  I arch a thumb toward my chest. “Not doing a damned thing except for actively being myself.”

  “Yeah.” He nods, grinning at me. “That’s the problem.”

  This is his way of offering me an olive branch. I take it by returning his smile. I can’t be on the outs with Luc. Need his help with the house. Need his help getting through the shit that’s happening with my head. Definitely need his help with Maggie and The Plan.

  As if thinking of her conjures her, she says, “Knock! Knock!” as she pushes through the front door, the outside light limning her in a soft white glow.

  It happens again. I’m struck dumb at the sight of her. At all five feet, two inches of black-haired bombshell and man-eating femininity. God, how I want her.

  “My gosh.” She turns a complete circle in the center of the room. “Would you look at this place?”

  I peel my eyes away from the way her jeans hug her curves and let them wander over the space instead. The walls separating the main living areas are gone. The kitchen is gutted except for the sink, one tiny cabinet, and the old avocado-green refrigerator. And the pile of debris that was in the corner is now sitting at the local dump.

  “It’s really coming along, isn’t it?” she muses.

  “Hard to say,” I grumble. “All I see are floors that still need to be sanded and refinished, molding and windows that still need to be replaced, a fireplace that still needs to be stripped and refitted, and—”

  “Sure,” she interrupts. “I mean, you’ve taken it down to the bare bones, but look at what pretty bones. Cash, it’ll be phenomenal once you and Luc are finished.”

  Counting on it. I want this to be the house she’s always dreamed of. The house she talked about when we were teenagers.

  Now that her inspection is complete, she claps her hands. “So let’s go adventuring, shall we?”

  “We shall.” Luc stands. “But I wanna warn you right now, this one’s in a mood.” He hitches his chin my way.

  I flip him off by scratching my eyebrow with my middle finger.

  “See?” He laughs.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re driving through the Seventh Ward, headed toward the St. Roch neighborhood. The heavy rain has turned the streets into water parks, but Smurf, with its chunky tires meant for the dirt roads leading to the bayou, plows along just fine.

  Which makes me wonder what the hell Luc’s doing.

  “Why are you driving like an elderly turtle?” I ask him.

  “I can’t see the potholes in the road with all this water. I don’t wanna ruin my suspension.”

  “Great,” I mutter, impatiently tapping my fingers on my knee. “And in the meantime, I’ll just sit here and try not to die from the tedium of it.”

  “Luc’s right.” Maggie frowns. “You’re crankier than a wet hen in a tote sack today.”

  “You Southerners have such a way with words.”

  She ignores that. “I thought hitting this chapel was your idea.”

  It was. It is. But between my screaming head and the sweet smell of her—not to mention the warm feel of her arm against mine—I’m feeling twitchier than the time Luc dared me to piss on an electric fence. And then there’s the reason I chose this place. Now that we’re almost there, I feel foolish.

  “Just a little cabin fever from the last few days.” Figure a half truth is better than no truth at all.

  Her expression softens. “Well, take a deep breath. The rain’s stopped, and the sun is shining.” When she points out the window at the bluebird sky, I realize she’s right. I’ve been so deep inside my own head that I haven’t noticed.

  “We’re here.” Luc slides Smurf next to the curb and cuts the engine.

  I take in the big wrought-iron gate with its white side posts. Each column is topped by a statue of a robed woman looking very serious and reverent. I guess that’s appropriate given the aboveground cemetery on the other side of the fence.

  New Orleans is built atop a swamp. Dig down more than a few feet and the hole will fill with water. If someone tried to actually bury a casket, the sucker would float.

  I remember being freaked out by the sight of the long rows of tombs when I first moved here. The locals call them cities of the dead, and that’s exactly what they look like. The small stone mausoleums are row houses for the bones of those who’ve gone on. They even have front porches and front doors so they can be opened and added to when a new family member bites the dust. I mean, for fuck’s sake!

  Viking funeral… It’s the only way to go.

  Maggie follows me out of the truck, carefully hopping over a huge puddle that’s collected in a depression in the sidewalk. The day is cool but not cold. Still, I roll down the sleeves of my flannel shirt.

  The churchyard is as silent as a tomb—no pun intended—except for a car engine somewhere in the distance and the high yip of a dog in a nearby yard. The earthy smell of wet concrete mixes with the sickly sweet aroma of the flowers people have left on the stone steps of the mausoleums. And I swear, if I breathe deeply, I can detect the pungent scent of rot.

  I’ve survived firefights, landslides, and a bombing, but none of that ever creeped me out like walking through one of NOLA’s cities of the dead.

  “So what’s the story with this place?” Maggie asks.

  “Yo
u remember in school how they taught us about that bad yellow fever epidemic that blew through the city?” I say.

  “Killed a whole lotta folks, didn’t it?” Luc replies.

  “Yeah. No one was safe, except…the people in this neighborhood.” I wave my arm to indicate the blocks surrounding the churchyard.

  “Oooh. Go on.” Maggie rubs her hands together as we continue to make our way between the timeworn tombs where the dead rest aboveground, just like the living. I try to be quiet as I pass. I don’t want to disturb their sleep.

  Unlike some of the more popular burial grounds in the city, like St. Louis Cemetery No.1—the historic spot where Marie Laveau is entombed—this place is empty of tourists looking for a thrill. In fact, the three of us are the only ones here, which increases the eeriness of it all.

  “There was a well-respected reverend who lived in this neighborhood,” I explain. “Supposedly, he prayed to Saint Roch to deliver his parishioners from the disease. He promised that if his flock was protected, he would build a cemetery and a shrine to the saint.” I point toward the chapel at the back of the property.

  “I guess his prayers were answered.” Maggie’s face is full of wonder.

  “If you believe in that stuff.”

  “What do you mean? What’s your explanation for why the people here were safe when the rest of the city wasn’t?”

  “Who knows?” I shrug. “Maybe it’s because yellow fever is spread by mosquitoes, and this neighborhood is farther from the river where the suckers breed. Maybe the reverend encouraged his parishioners to remain indoors.”

  “Spoilsport.” She purses her lips. “A benevolent patron saint answering the prayers of a holy man is a much better story.”

  We’ve made it to the chapel. The door is open, so we can see inside to the gray tile floors, the wooden pews, and the altar with a carved statue of some guy in robes. Not sure if it’s supposed to represent the reverend or the saint.

  The room itself is small, but the ceiling is towering. Our footfalls echo strangely, as if the chapel is ten times its actual size.

  “This way.” I motion them toward the room off to the side of the nave.

  “What in the world?” Maggie breathes as soon as she sees it.

  Luc is more succinct. “Holy shit.”

  “That about sums it up.” I smile.

  “I can’t… I don’t… What am I seeing?” Maggie’s eyes race around a small space jam-packed with prosthetic feet hanging from hooks, crutches leaning against the walls, and leg braces, glass eyeballs, candle holders, and statuary. The floor is made of interlocking bricks. Each of them is stamped with one word… THANKS.

  “These are the offerings of people who’ve come to ask for healing.” I reach into my hip pocket to pull out a little piece of myself. “Or the ones who’ve been healed and have left behind a token of thanks.”

  “Guess that explains the can of corn and the SpongeBob SquarePants toy.” Luc’s mouth twists in a wry grin.

  I covertly lay the circular piece of bone on the shelf closest to me. Or at least I try to be covert about it. I forget Maggie has an eagle eye.

  “What’s that?” She points to my offering. It’s sitting beside a cherub figurine.

  I’m being ridiculous, but at this point I’m willing to try anything. “It’s the piece of my skull they couldn’t put back after they had to drain the blood from my brain.”

  “You’re missing part of your skull?” Her eyes go to the scar near my temple, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “They replaced it with a bioabsorbable polymer. Kind of cool when you think about it.”

  I hope to distract her from my offering and the connotation that comes with it. Unfortunately, she’s too smart for that.

  “That’s why you wanted to come here.” She puts a hand over her mouth. “You wanted to leave behind that piece of your skull and ask Saint Roch to heal you.”

  “Don’t cry, Maggie.” I point at her when her eyes well up. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ll never go anywhere with you again if you cry.”

  “Right.” She nods emphatically, blinking away her tears. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Luc crosses his arms and narrowly regards me.

  “And you.” I transfer my point to him. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I don’t really believe in any of this bullshit. But I figure, what the hell? Can’t hurt, right?”

  “Well, I believe,” Maggie declares emphatically. “I mean, not in organized religion or anything. How the heck am I supposed to know who’s right? The Christians? The Hindus? Buddhists? Muslims? I don’t think the right god”—she does air quotes—“should depend on where you were born. But I do like to think there’s something bigger than us. That there’s more to this whole thing than the infinitesimal span of our lives. I’m glad you left that piece of your skull behind, Cash.” She gives me a quick, assertive nod. “Give it up to the power of the universe. Who knows? Maybe the universe will give you something in return.”

  Luc grunts, which makes Maggie quirk an eyebrow at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you believe in a higher power?”

  “Given all the awful shit I’ve seen?” Luc’s frown is fierce. “If there is a god, he’s a sadistic sonofagun, and I’d like to have a few words with him.”

  She winces. She probably thinks he’s talking about that night in the bayou. And maybe he is. But he’s not only talking about that. All the years spent soldiering mean we’ve both seen the worst humanity has to offer.

  Okay, this is getting too serious.

  “I’m starving.” I nudge them toward the front door. “What do you guys say we swing by Port of Call on our way home? I could use a burger and a baked potato.”

  Maggie grins. “My head and hips say, ‘Salad,’ but my heart says, ‘Heck yeah!’”

  Trailing behind them, I secretly take out my flask. “Here’s to you, Roch.” I salute the saint under my breath before downing the Gentleman Jack and exiting the chapel.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Mark Twain once said, “New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.”

  He was right. Doesn’t matter if you’re talking about the highbrow fare served at the fancy-dancy Michelin-starred restaurants or the stick-to-your-bones food cooked up in the holes in the wall like here at Port of Call, your taste buds are going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven.

  The three of us are sitting at the bar, me in the middle. The small restaurant on Esplanade Avenue is one of those Big Easy institutions that makes sense because it doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s a burger joint, but it’s decked out like a seafood restaurant with a ship’s wheel on the wall, rigging strung across the ceiling, and pictures of ocean views and tropical sunsets hanging around.

  You can get a burger—the best in town—but don’t you dare order french fries, or you might get punched in the face. Loaded baked potatoes are served here. Period. End of story. And instead of beer and soda, Port of Call is known for its fruity, tropical drinks. They’re the only things about the place that seem to match the name and decor.

  My favorite cocktail is called Neptune’s Monsoon, which the menu claims is an old recipe pirates requested before being made to walk the plank. I assume the scallywags asked for it because of its strength. One is all I need to go numb.

  I tell myself I’ll just drink half.

  Being around Cash has made me hyperaware of my alcohol intake. And speaking of Cash, he’s wearing a frown as crooked as a crow’s foot.

  “He’s still sulking,” I whisper to Luc, eyeing Cash warily.

  “I don’t sulk,” Cash insists. “I brood.” When I lift an eyebrow, he adds, “That’s how strong, manly men sulk.”

  I think of the pain he struggles with on a daily basis and that skull fragment he left at the chapel. Covertly, I glance at the scar above his temple, wanting to touc
h it, soothe it, soothe him. But I don’t dare.

  Instead, I tell him adamantly, “Things are going to get better. I know they are. After we talk with your doctor tomorrow, we’ll figure out how we can—”

  “I’m not brooding about my dumb brain,” he interrupts. “I’m brooding about being twenty-eight years old and spending all my time tearing down walls and pissing in a toilet that I have to jiggle the handle on every time I flush, or the damn thing runs all day and night. I’m brooding about sleeping on a mattress on the floor like some flophouse junkie. I’m brooding about missing out on all the good things in life. But then I think to myself, ‘No. You wanted this house. You wanted to take on this project. Suck it up, buttercup.’”

  “You say twenty-eight like it’s ancient.” I laugh. “It’s young. Too young to be having a midlife crisis.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  I nudge him with my elbow. “You have all the time in the world.” I don’t add, Or at least you will if you lay off the hooch.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs again. For a while, he’s quiet. Then he blurts, “I want to up our Sunday brunches from once a month to twice a month. Same for the excursions.”

  “I’m game.” I nod. More time together will mean more opportunities for us to have that conversation we’ve been avoiding—or, rather, the one I’ve been avoiding. “Luc? How about you?”

  He’s watching Cash through narrowed eyes. It makes me wonder if I’m missing something. Some subtext beneath Cash’s words.

  “Fine by me,” he finally says. “I’m even up for more today. What time you gotta be to work tonight, Maggie May?”

  “Not till seven.”

  “So after we eat, let’s go break the law and sneak into Jazzland.”

  For the first time all day, Cash smiles. That’s all the impetus I need to agree to the plan.

  “Let me text Jean-Pierre so he can take Yard out.” I take my cell from my pocket to shoot off the text.

  Jean-Pierre responds with a winky face blowing a heart kiss. Then our cheeseburgers arrive, and the smells of fried meat, cheddar cheese, and steaming baked potatoes fill the air. We dig in with gusto.