“That’s the right to pursue happiness,” I tell her, absently splitting a blade of crab grass and tying the two pieces together into a loose knot. “It’s not the right to happiness.”
She cocks her head. “What’s the difference?”
“One lets you sit on your ass and wait for a good life to come your way. The other says you gotta go out and grab the good life by the balls.”
Cash motions to the activity around us. “And look at all these people grabbing the good life by the balls.”
The Fly is a large swath of green space in Audubon Park. It nestles up against the east bank of the Mississippi and is a favorite spot among locals. It’s here that the good folks of New Orleans come to toss Frisbees, take their dogs for walks, and picnic while watching some of the city’s most spectacular sunsets.
Leaning back on my elbows, I stretch my legs out in front of me. A soft breeze blows by, making the grass sway. The river smells ancient in a way that’s hard to describe. And the sounds of laughter, conversation, and music drift around us. A symphony of humanity.
“Happiness is like anything else in life,” I add. “You have to choose it.” When I pin Maggie with a pointed look, she bites her bottom lip and glances down at her phone, thumbing the screen to avoid my eyes. “Some folks who have the world at their feet are never satisfied. Always looking for something better or different or closer to what they used to have,” I continue mercilessly. “While other folks who seem to have nothing at all couldn’t be happier.”
I hitch my chin toward a group of men and women sitting in a circle on the grass about thirty yards away. Ratty clothes and unwashed hair tell the story of their dire straits. And yet each and every one of them is laughing and joking. And when the guy strumming an old beat-up guitar switches to a new tune, they sway together and sing their hearts out. The sound is pure joy.
Maggie follows my line of sight. “Aunt Bea says a hardscrabble life in New Orleans is better than living on Easy Street anywhere else.”
Cash snorts. “What would Miss Bea know about hardscrabble? She’s as rich as Croesus, thanks to her husband and his fucked-up brain veins.”
I glance at him sharply. Everyone knows Maggie’s aunt came by her money the old-fashioned way: She married it. Everyone also knows her husband died young of an aneurism. But to put it so grotesquely…
“You might wanna see your way ’round to laying off that shit.” I hitch my chin toward his flask.
“Whatever.” He indulges in another long pull of whiskey to provoke me. Then he points across the way and whispers, “Look. There it goes.”
The sun is a molten ball of fiery orange and rose gold melting into the horizon. The tips of the river’s currents flash liquid silver in the dying light. And the thin layers of clouds overhead are painted in the rich hues of pink and purple, scarlet and canary yellow.
My breath catches. Maggie sighs wistfully. And Cash stretches out on his stomach, resting his chin atop his stacked fists as life on The Fly comes to a standstill. Frisbees are dropped. Folks out for exercise stop in their tracks. Even the bugs and the birds seem to have been struck mute by the beauty of the sun putting on a display like no other.
My poet’s heart tries to find a way to describe the scene and fails. Partly because there aren’t enough adjectives in the English language. Partly because, just when I think I might be able to come up with a bit of prose that could capture what I’m seeing, the scene changes. The colors deepen. The lengthening shadows add a whole new dimension to the tableau, and I’m back to where I started, at a loss for words.
The minutes stretch out as the glowing orange orb dips low. Lower still. Finally, only a crescent of golden light appears above the trees. There it seems to stop. Suspended in the sky. Impervious to the seconds ticking by, until…in a blink, it’s gone.
The long lavender shadows of dusk creep across the ground in its absence. The first star of the night winks to life on the eastern horizon. And the crickets, who have been waiting patiently all day, begin their twilight refrain.
“Beautiful,” Maggie says breathlessly. “Why didn’t we ever do this when we were kids?”
“We thought it was for families and old folks.” I watch the three elderly women fold up their lawn chairs and head for the parking lot, eager, now that the show is over, to change into slippers and nightgowns and curl up with chamomile tea.
“Then we were idiots,” Maggie declares.
“No. Simply young and more interested in listening to music and taking on the world. Plus, back then we couldn’t have gotten Cash to sit still long enough to watch a sunset.”
We look at the man in question, only to find him fast asleep. His cheek rests atop his hands, his mouth is slack, and the wound on his forehead doesn’t look as angry in the softness of the gloaming.
“When he’s sleeping, I can almost tell myself no time has passed,” Maggie murmurs. “He could be eighteen again.”
She’s right. The pain that’s a constant in his eyes these days is masked. His eyelashes obscure the bruised-looking skin beneath his lower lids. And the lines that have been carved into his forehead are eased.
“It might be time we started”—I swallow and shift uneasily, hating that it’s come to this, hating that there’s not more I can do for him—“thinking ’bout an intervention. The doctors said drinking in moderation to take the edge off his pain is one thing, but drinking in excess is another. He’s drinking in excess all day, every day. If he’s allowed to keep it up, it’ll kill him and we’ll never know if the problem with his head could’ve been fixed or finally healed itself.”
For the first time all evening, she doesn’t look away from me after a few tense seconds. Instead, her gaze is steady as she nods sadly. “I think you’re right. But with his house unfinished and his dad’s trial coming up—”
“Barring any major setbacks,” I interrupt, “like me having to go on trial myself, the house should be done soon. So I’m thinking after…”
I don’t have to finish the sentence. The look that passes between us tells me we’re on the same page.
“For the record, you’re not going to go on trial,” she says. Then she proves she’s not as certain as she’d have me believe by tentatively asking, “Have you…uh…heard from Abelman?”
“Nope. Radio silence.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe not. Either way, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so I’m not gonna let myself worry.”
She sees through my bravado, but is too tenderhearted to contradict me. Instead, she mercifully turns the subject back to Cash. “We can do some research on rehabs. Maybe check into the costs and stuff. Do you know if the VA has any programs available?”
Before I can answer, Cash groans and rolls over. He stares up at us blearily. “Is it over?”
“The sun has up and gone to bed for the night,” I tell him. “Looks like you should do the same.”
He grumbles something unintelligible and reaches for me so I can haul him to his feet. I try not to notice how unsteady he is. And I really try to ignore the kick of envy when Maggie winds her arm around his waist to help him back to the truck.
Once I’ve stowed the blanket and the picnic basket in Smurf’s bed, we pile inside. Cash switches on the radio, and the superlative pipes of Aretha Franklin burst through the speakers.
The whole way to Cash’s house, Aretha sings about standing by the railroad tracks waiting for her baby to come back to her on the “five oh three” train. I can’t help making the connection between Maggie and Cash. No railroad tracks and no train were involved. All the same, Maggie waited. For ten long years.
Once I pull up to the curb next to the cottage, Cash hops from the truck and swings back to us with a frown. “You two need to figure out your shit already,” he says, proving, despite his heavy slur, that he’s not so oblivious after all. “I’m getting tired of feeling like I have to walk on eggshells around you guys.”
Maggie looks shocked. “Wh-what are you…” She doesn’t finish, simply swallows noisily.
I try to read what’s in Cash’s head by studying his expression. But it’s oddly neutral even though he’s completely shitfaced. Then he slams the door and stumbles toward his stoop. After he disappears inside the house, I shake my head and put the truck in gear.
Maggie glares at me. “You told him, didn’t you?”
“No, ma’am. I did not.”
“Then what was all that about figuring out our…our…” She motions out the back window.
“I reckon the word you’re searching for is shit.”
“I’m serious, Luc.” Her tone is testy.
I slant her a glance. “Cash might be a drunk, but he’s not deaf, dumb, and blind, Maggie May. And in case no one’s ever told you, you tend to wear your feelings on your sleeve.”
Her mouth opens and closes twice before she gives up on whatever is perched on the edge of her tongue and stares out the window. Since I’m fine letting her stew in her own juices (I reckon it’ll do her some good), we’re silent for the rest of the drive.
It’s not until I pull next to the spice shop that she says with a determined dip of her chin, “So then we’ll have to be more careful to mask our feelings when we’re around him.”
With that pronouncement, she pushes from the truck. I don’t follow her immediately. I’m stunned into silence as a slow, satisfied smile spreads across my face.
Our feelings?
After exiting the truck, I find she’s rounded the tailgate and is standing on the back wheel, trying to fish the basket and the blanket from Smurf’s bed.
When I grab her waist and lower her to the ground, she slaps at my hands. “Hey! What’s with the manhandling?” But there’s a breathless quality to her voice and a look in her eyes I recognize well.
My smile widens. I can’t help it.
“Show off,” she grumbles when I reach into the back and easily snag the picnic items. “I could do that, too, if I were as tall as you.”
“If you were as tall as me, you’d have a helluva time finding dresses to fit.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Go dress shopping a lot, do you?”
“If I did, would you think less of me?”
She bats my question away, annoyed she isn’t able to get the best of me. Have I mentioned that Maggie in a snit is as cute as a bug’s ear?
“I’m more of a jeans kind of girl,” she says.
Setting the picnic basket and blanket on the sidewalk beside the wrought-iron gate leading to her courtyard, I lower my voice an octave. Cash calls it my Bayou Banger Baritone. He claims it can make panties drop quick as a whistle.
Right now, I’m not too proud to use every weapon in my arsenal. “I know exactly what kinda girl you are, Maggie May.”
Her mouth falls open. When I start her way with a determined step, she holds out a hand to ward me off.
“Wh-what are you d-doing?” she stutters as I walk right up to her, letting her outstretched hand press against my chest. Letting her feel the heat of me, the strength of me. The man I’ve become.
Cash says we need to figure out our shit?
I aim to please.
“I’m pressing the issue of you and me.” I keep my tone modulated and let the words sit between us.
“Y-you—” She shakes her head. “We had a deal. We were going to cool things off until Cash is better and—”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “That’s what you said. I never agreed.”
Her eyes flash in the light from the streetlamps. “So, what? You’re planning to change my mind by seducing me?”
“Exactly.” I step into her, trapping her between the truck and the length of my body.
She stares up at me, and I give her a moment to tell me no, to say she doesn’t want this. But the seconds tick by and nothing slips past her lips except for a few panting breaths.
I accept the invitation of her open mouth, palm her face, and kiss her. Then I kiss her some more.
I kiss her until I’ve turned myself inside out kissing her.
Chapter Seventy-four
______________________________________
Maggie
Lord save me from a man on a mission.
Because I’m not sure I can save myself.
“And then, after you told him y’all needed to cool things off, he kissed you again?” Eva takes a sip of wine, her eyes filled with wonder. “Right there up against his truck?”
“No.” I jerk my chin from side to side. “To call that a kiss makes it sound ordinary. It was far from ordinary. It was all heat and pressure and passion, like he’d reached his limits and had been pushed beyond them. Like he wanted to devour me whole.”
“Oh sweet Jesus.” Eva fans her face despite it being a chilly night and despite her being snuggled beneath a fuzzy throw blanket.
“You’re not helping.” I point to her. When Jean-Pierre makes a pained sound while clutching his heart, I tell him, “And neither are you.”
It’s been four days since the picnic. Four days since the kiss… Excuse me, that should be The Kiss—that thing definitely deserves to be capitalized and italicized. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced anything quite like it before, and I’m not sure I’m prepared to experience anything quite like it again.
But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, during each and every minute of each and every one of the past four days, I’ve struggled to sort out the tangled web of my feelings. For Cash. For Luc. For Cash and Luc. I’ve tried to find a way to make sure no one gets hurt.
It’s proved impossible.
This evening, I did the only thing left to me. I called in the cavalry.
There’s strength in numbers, right? Power in the hive mind?
With the promise of dinner and wine, I convinced Eva and Jean-Pierre to come over. Aunt Bea was enough of an influence on me, however, that I waited until after I served dessert and we took ourselves onto the balcony before dropping the bomb about what’s been happening between me and Luc since New Year’s Eve.
At first, the conversation stopped and started and sputtered like an old car with clogged filters as Jean-Pierre and Eva peppered me with questions.
“…does Cash know about…”
“…what happens when…”
“…how will you choose who…”
Now, with the entire tale out there, the three of us are quiet, staring at the brooding black clouds that have crowded around each other until they’ve blocked out the moon and the stars. The air is heavy, pressing against the skin of my face. Soon the rain will start.
Usually, I like nothing better than sitting on my balcony on nights like this. Watching the fat drops of water fall on the rooftops across the way and seeing the street below flood. But this evening I can’t concentrate on anything but the mess that is my life.
Cash seems to be getting worse by the day. The charges against Luc still haven’t been dropped. I’ve been dodging a particularly tenacious reporter who keeps trying to get me on the record about why Sullivan came out to Luc’s house, even though I’ve told her three times I won’t comment until Luc’s been cleared of all charges. And to top it off, now I’m having a crisis of conscience when it comes to two of the most important men in my life.
Hallelujah and pass the self-flagellation whip!
“I feel like this is some sort of karmic payback,” I say, ruffling Yard’s ears. I’m reclined back into a chaise, and my loyal companion is between my legs, curled into his delightful doggy doughnut, nose to tail. “But for what I don’t know. I mean, I’ve tried never to cheat or steal or badmouth folks. Then again, anytime I read one of those silly books with a love triangle, I always scoffed and rolled my eyes. I thought it was impossible to love two people equally. And now look at me. Maybe this is the universe’s way of punishing me for being so self-righteous.”
“Me, I hate to break it to you, cher,” Jean-Pierre says. “But da universe don’
t care enough ’bout us one way or da other to be praisin’ or punishin’. It’s all chance and circumstance, mais yeah?”
“Is your love for them truly equal?” Eva twirls one springy ringlet around her finger, her expression curious.
“Yes.” I nod. “No.” I shake my head. “Dang it, I don’t know. It’s…different. With Cash, my feelings came on quick, like a flood that changed the landscape of my heart. But with Luc…it’s more like a strong, slow-moving current that’s inexorably pulling me downstream. At least that’s how I felt before that kiss.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “So how do you feel now?”
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the cushion, picturing Luc as he stalked toward me. Picturing him catching me up against the side of Smurf. Picturing him framing my face with his big hands so he could show me what he meant when he talked about seduction.
“After he came back to town as this badass Green Beret, I still only saw the boy I knew in high school,” I say slowly. “But recently, I’ve been noticing how broad his shoulders are. How flat his stomach is. How his jeans hug his butt and thighs. He’s grown into this big, warm wall of muscle that speaks to something deep inside me. Something uncivilized.”
“Soc au’ lait.” This time it’s Jean-Pierre who fans his face.
“Your cavewoman is responding to his caveman.” A knowing smile tilts Eva’s lips.
“Ugh!” I cover my eyes with my hands. “But how can I want him when he’s my friend and when I’m already in love with Cash?”
When neither of them answers, I lower my hands. They’re both eyeing me.
“What?” I say. “What’s with the faces?”
“It’s just dat…” Jean-Pierre hesitates. “Are you in love with Cash? Or is it more like you feel you should be in love with him?”
I blink dully, and Eva fills the silence with, “It does seem like Cash came into your life at a vulnerable time. And speaking as a friend”—she puts a hand over her heart—“I’ve always thought you romanticized things with him a bit. Hanging on when you should’ve been letting go. I’m not saying you didn’t love him back then, or even that you don’t love him now, I’m just wondering if it’s…everything you think it is.”
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 8
