Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Sonofa—” I grab my chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  She grins that sparkly, shiny grin that shows off the tiny gap between her two front teeth. “You don’t like this place much, do you?”

  “Gives me the heebie-jeebies,” I admit, joining her next to the booth. “Where’s Luc?”

  “He wanted to see if the Krazy Krewe ride is still standing. He said it was his mom’s favorite. We’re supposed to meet him back at the truck once we’re finished exploring.”

  Damn. That’s not how this was supposed to go. We weren’t supposed to split up, and Maggie definitely wasn’t supposed to be left alone with me.

  When I take a step away, determined that we should go find Luc, she stops me. “Cash? Wait, I want to…” She trails off and tries again. “Can I ask you something?”

  There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. “You can ask me anything, but I don’t promise to answer.”

  She twists her lips and looks at me like I’m the most annoying person who was ever born of a woman.

  “What?” I shrug. “Told you a man needs his secrets.”

  “I’m not talking about the stupid scar on your eyebrow. I’m talking about you and…” She swallows. “And me. I’m talking about us.”

  Now that sinking feeling has become a vortex, sucking all the blood from my face.

  “What do you want from me now that you’re back?” she asks, looking so damned earnest.

  Want from her? I don’t want anything from her. I want the world for her.

  “Nothing,” I say and nearly slap myself when her expression falls. “No. I don’t mean that like you’re thinking.”

  “Then how do you mean it?” Her eyes are filled with such sweet entreaty.

  With all my heart, I want to pull her close and love her. I want to be her everything like she’s my everything. But that’s not part of The Plan.

  Taking a step back, I give her the only truth I can. “I’m trying to do what’s right here, Maggie. For the first time in my life, I’m trying my damnedest to be the good guy.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  The weird thing about life is that you can be a different person to different people.

  To my mother, I’m a good, sweet boy. To Benjamin Gates, I’m his third-grade nemesis because I was young and cotton-headed, and while aiming to impress the “cool” fourth-grade boys, I gave Ben a wedgie where everyone could see. (I’m still ashamed about that.) And to Cash, I’m his unpaid labor and his pain-in-the-ass conscience.

  He tried to convince me to talk Maggie out of coming today. Tried telling me his medical issues are no one’s business but his own.

  I told him that she deserves to hear from the horse’s mouth what she’s in for. I told him that letting her in on what’s happening with his head is the right thing to do. And I might have mentioned that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter, because if he didn’t let her come, then I’d stop helping him with his house.

  George Sullivan isn’t the only one in town who knows how to strong-arm folks.

  Now I’m sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway outside Cash’s doctor’s office. Maggie is beside me, fidgeting with the frayed edges of the hole in the knee of her jeans.

  Cash promised we could come in once he and the doctor finished going over the details of his latest set of scans. But he’s been in there for over an hour, and I’m beginning to get nervous. I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a fast one, or—

  “Luc.” Maggie’s voice is low, hesitant. “If I ask you a question, will you promise to tell me the truth?”

  I stare at her. “I always aim to tell you the truth, Maggie May.”

  She blushes and looks away.

  Right. My Halloween ball and bachelor auction confession. Things are shaky between us, but I reckon that’ll pass soon enough. And even if it doesn’t, it’s a small price to pay.

  Ever since that night, a weight has lifted and I feel freer than I have in years.

  It’s like I’ve kept my pain in a hermetically sealed package, which protected me from the scale of the hurt, but it also kept the wound fresh, never allowing it to heal. Now it’s been exposed to the air. It’s drying out and scabbing over. And for the first time in a long time, I dream of a future for myself. I dream of happiness, of…possibilities.

  “What happened to make Cash leave?” she asks.

  I sigh. That’s the one thing I can’t answer, so I pose a question of my own. “Have you asked him? Point-blank just asked him?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “When y’all first came back, that’s all I wanted to know. But as the weeks have dragged on, I… I’ve turned chickenhearted.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid what his answer will be. I’m afraid he’ll say it’s because of me. Because he didn’t want to…” She trails off and yanks a string off her jeans, absently rolling it into a ball between her fingers. Her throat makes a dry, clicking noise when she swallows. “We were supposed to make love for the first time that night. Did you know that?”

  I ignore the odd feeling swirling in my stomach. “No.”

  “I’ve always wondered if he ran off because he didn’t want to go through with it. Because he didn’t want me, or because he thought if we had sex, then it would tie him to me, or because—”

  “It was none of that, Maggie May,” I interrupt her.

  “Then what was it?” Her eyes are so startlingly blue.

  My motto when it comes to Cash and Maggie has always been: Never get their shit on my shoes. I’ve done my best to let them work things out on their own. Tried never to play the middleman even when one of them (or both of them) attempted to put me in that role. But I can’t resist those eyes.

  “The only thing I’ll say is that he told you the truth when he said he left because of his dad.”

  A line forms between her eyebrows. “But there’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

  All I can do is stare at her.

  She blows out a breath. “Why does everything have to be so darned complicated?”

  “Ask him, Maggie May. Make Cash tell you. I think—”

  I don’t get any further. Cash throws open the door to the doctor’s office and motions us inside with a portentous, “Time to face the music.”

  I help Maggie stand, and she doesn’t let go of my fingers once she’s up. Instead, she drags me into the office, taking Cash’s hand in the process. By the time we’re arranged in front of the doctor’s desk, we’re a united front.

  “Seems you have a couple of good people on your side, Soldier,” the physician says with a smile.

  “I do, sir.” Cash nods.

  “Please. Take a seat.” The doctor motions to the three chairs he’s placed in front of his desk. Two are leather and look like they belong here. One is plastic and obviously came from the hallway. The nameplate on the physician’s desk reads, “Dr. Henry Beckett.”

  Naturally, Maggie chooses the chair in the middle, leaving Cash and me to flank her on either side. Once we’re settled, Beckett (who looks kind in his wire-rimmed glasses and thinning white hair) folds his hands and leans forward across his desk. “I hear you’re both worried about Sergeant Armstrong’s pain levels,” he says.

  “We’re worried he chooses to combat his pain levels with Gentleman Jack,” Maggie counters.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Oh, Maggie… Wonderful, tell-it-like-it-is Maggie.

  Beckett rubs a hand over his chin and sighs wearily. “Head injuries, and the pain that comes with them, are unique in the world of medicine.”

  “Shouldn’t he be taking medication instead of drinking?” Maggie demands.

  “Ideally, yes. But Sergeant Armstrong tells me the pain medications make him sick and woozy and unable to function in daily life.”

  “So try new ones,” I say.

  Beckett opens the file on his desk and scans the contents on
the first page. “We’ve tried them all. The next step in pain management would be to hook him up to a morphine drip, but then we’d be talking about a quality-of-life issue. Meaning, he wouldn’t necessarily have one. If he’s able to combat the worst of the pain with a little whiskey and still live a full life, then I can’t in good conscience tell him what he’s doing is wrong.”

  “Fine. Great. He’s making his brain feel better, but he’s killing his liver!” When Maggie throws her hands in the air, I can tell she’s as flabbergasted as I am. Are we really sitting here listening to a medical professional tell us it’s okay that Cash gets shithoused most days of the week? “Let’s get out of here,” she says. “We obviously need a second opinion.”

  “Wait.” Cash lays a hand on her arm when she tries to stand. Then he nods to Beckett. “Go on, Doc. Get him on the phone.”

  Beckett picks up a handset and dials a number. “Hello? Yes, please connect me with Dr. Corbin Winthrop’s office.” He waits as the connection is made. Then, “Dr. Winthrop? This is Dr. Beckett over at the VA. Would you mind if I put you on speakerphone?” He nods and presses a button. “Okay, Doctor, you’re on. Please, introduce yourself to our listeners.”

  “Hello.” A tinny-sounding voice issues from the speakers. “I’m Dr. Corbin Winthrop, head of the Neurology Department at Tulane University Medical Center.”

  Maggie flicks me a quick glance, a question in her eyes. I shake my head. No, I didn’t know this was going to happen.

  “Dr. Winthrop, you’ve seen Sergeant Armstrong’s scans,” Beckett says. “What is your professional opinion concerning his pain management?”

  “Given you’ve already tried the arsenal of prescription opioids,” Winthrop says, “I’d say anything Sergeant Armstrong can do to give himself relief is reasonable.”

  My stomach drops.

  “Well…that’s just…ridiculous,” Maggie sputters. For a while after that pronouncement, silence rules the room. Then, her voice more measured, she suggests, “What about surgery? Maybe that bioabsorbable whatchamacallit that’s in there is causing the problem.”

  “I’m afraid surgery won’t help.” There’s not an ounce of wiggle room in Winthrop’s voice. “I agree with Dr. Beckett that Sergeant Armstrong’s best course of action is whatever helps him cope.”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “You’re telling me you agree Cash should carry a flask in his back pocket and stay good and buzzed most days and flat-out drunk others?”

  “No.” Winthrop is quick to naysay me. “That’s not what I’m suggesting at all. A nip to take the edge off the pain is one thing, since the meds don’t seem to help. But getting drunk and dealing with the side effects of dehydration and a hangover are whole other issues. We’re talking about quality-of-life here. It seems to me there’s a middle road of moderation.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Maggie echoes my earlier thoughts.

  Again, silence…

  “Thank you, Doctors.” Cash stands. “I appreciate your candor today.” He looks down at me and Maggie. “So? Can we get the hell out of here or what?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  If you don’t know where you’re going, at least know where you come from.

  That’s what my mother used to say.

  Good advice. Especially if you’re from a place where friends are willing to drop everything and come over to help you through an existential crisis while toting sweet apple wine and delicious muffulettas.

  Savoring the last bite of the salami-and-olive-salad sandwich, I crumple the paper wrapper and pull a blanket across Yard, who is curled between my legs, happily dreaming of chasing squirrels. Jean-Pierre has finished eating and is lounging on the chaise to my right, wineglass in hand. And Eva is on my left in a thick, ribbed sweater, licking Crystal hot sauce off her fingers.

  Everywhere else in Louisiana, Tabasco is the pepper sauce of choice. But here in the Big Easy, we’re loyal to Crystal. For decades, it was bottled on Tulane Avenue. Then Katrina destroyed the plant and forced them to a new location upriver. Like so much in town after the storm, the iconic green sign that used to sit atop the bottling shop is sorely missed.

  The slow-drifting moon makes an arc across the sky. The cool breath of November sneaks onto my balcony. And a whippoorwill lets loose with its lonesome call from somewhere near the river, drawing my attention to that big, fast-moving water even though I can’t see the rippling current from here. It’s obscured by a high embankment covered in grass that’s going dormant as winter approaches and another year comes to an end.

  It’s sad. This yearly ending. Any ending, really. But I remind myself that, come spring, the space will be filled with Queen Anne’s lace. And the fuzzy white flowers will attract the buzz of hundreds of bumblebees.

  Endings make room for beginnings, I tell myself, wondering if I’m flitting around some universal truth that I should try to apply to Cash.

  What is this thing we’ve got going? Is it the end of what we had? Is it the beginning of something new? Or is it neither? Could our beginning have ended a long time ago and I’m just the last one to realize it? The last to let go?

  Seeing the direction of my gaze, Jean-Pierre says quietly, “My daddy says if ya listen closely, ya can hear da ghosts of da Mississippi cryin’ at night. He says da souls lost to dat mighty river stay trapped der forever, mais yeah?”

  A chill sneaks up my spine. I welcome the distraction. I welcome anything that stops my head from spinning.

  I tried to ease my worried mind by spending the afternoon at the animal shelter walking the dogs. That usually does the trick when I’m out of sorts. But not today. Today I had to call in the big guns. Namely, Eva and Jean-Pierre.

  “I believe it,” I whisper.

  Eva snorts. “That’s because you believe everything.”

  “Not everything,” I argue. When she gives me a look, I capitulate. “Okay, fine. So I’m fanciful. I don’t know how you can grow up in this city and not be.”

  “Easy.” She shrugs. “If you can’t see or feel it, it doesn’t exist.”

  “But you can see it and feel it.” When she lifts an eyebrow, I explain, “Look down any street or alleyway in The Quarter and there’s history in the bricks and mortar. Hundreds of lives come and gone. Thousands of secrets kept and told. Pioneers, pirates, noblemen, and slaves have walked these crumbling streets. It isn’t just the humidity that makes the air thick. It’s heavy with spirits. With memories. And speaking of memories…”

  Reaching beneath my chair, I pull out two neatly wrapped gifts. The green one goes to Jean-Pierre, the pink one to Eva.

  “What’s dis now?” Jean-Pierre eyes me askance. “Has Christmas come early?”

  “You think I’d risk my neck sneaking into Jazzland and not bring back souvenirs?”

  Jean-Pierre tears into the wrapping paper and lifts the Jazzland coffee mug I found stuck in the mud near the bumper cars. Once I cleaned it off, I was happy to find the ceramic was intact and the logo still as neat and tidy as the day it was stamped.

  “Would ya look at dat.” He marvels. “Me, I would’ve thought the scavengers picked dat place clean.”

  “They did for the most part,” I tell him. “But you know me. I have a nose for buried treasure.”

  “Oh, Maggie.” Eva’s tone is hushed, almost reverent.

  She’s carefully unwrapped the old-fashioned Coke bottle printed with a message proclaiming the grand opening of Jazzland. That I found in a moldy old box way in the back of the dilapidated souvenir shop.

  The look of wonder on her face makes me smile. “I remember you had one of those on your bedside table when we were kids. You used to put the plastic—”

  “King cake babies in there,” she finishes for me. “Granny Mabel took me to the park the first week it was open and bought that bottle for me as a keepsake. Then Katrina came and washed it away, along with everything else.�
��

  Tears fill her eyes.

  “Don’t do that.” I point at her, my throat suddenly full. “You know nobody cries alone in my company.”

  She blows out a steadying breath and somehow manages to keep her tears from falling. “Thank you, Maggie. This is really special.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” I give her hand a squeeze.

  “I can’t believe you remembered that old bottle.” She shakes her head. “No. I take that back. I totally believe it. You’re such a sentimentalist, always so nostalgic about things.”

  I frown, because that’s my opening. “That’s kind of the reason I called y’all here tonight.”

  “And now we’re getting to it.” She carefully rewraps the bottle and sets it aside so she can cup her chin in her hand and eye me thoughtfully.

  I try to put my ramshackle thoughts into an order that will make sense. But eventually, I’m forced to admit, “I can’t figure out who’s in charge of my life these days because it sure as shoot doesn’t feel like me. I feel like a piece of flotsam on the ocean, being carried by the current, unable to adjust my path. Or worse, not knowing which path I would take even if I could adjust it.”

  “Let me guess,” she says. “Cash is the current, and he’s pulling you straight toward him?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. Then I quickly add, “And no. I mean, I definitely feel pulled toward him. No question of that. But it’s not because of anything he’s said or done. If anything, based on what he’s said, I should feel the exact opposite.”

  “What do ya mean?” Jean-Pierre asks.

  “I mean, when I asked him what he wants from me, he said he doesn’t want anything.”

  They exchange a glance.

  “I know, right?” I lift my hands and let them fall. “But it’s just that… I don’t really believe him. Sometimes I swear I catch him looking at me like he used to. Then again, maybe I’m seeing what I want to see. A decade ago, my feelings for him bloomed into this huge tree, and I’ve spent the intervening years watering it and watching it grow instead of cutting it down and burning the stump.”