Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3

by Julie Ann Walker

  “I don’t know, but…” She searches my face as a gust of wind slaps into us with surprising force. The storm is nearly here.

  I use that as an excuse to say, “I better get going.”

  When I turn, her hand falls away. And yet I still feel the ghostly imprint of all five of her fingers.

  “Oh, gosh. I almost forgot.” She catches up with me again as I step into the street. “I’m having breakfast tomorrow morning at Café Du Monde with that reporter I was telling you about.”

  “Did you call Abelman?”

  Two days ago, we talked about how if she was aiming to publicly reveal what happened with Dean in the swamp all those years ago, she should have a lawyer present to make sure she doesn’t say anything she shouldn’t. If this whole mess has taught me anything, it’s that it pays to be cautious and always have a good lawyer on your side.

  “I called him on the walk over,” she assures me. “He’s going to meet me there.”

  “Good.” I dip my chin. “I’m glad you’ve decided to come out with it all. You deserve to have your story told.”

  And despite my hurt, that’s true. I want her to have this closure. This absolution.

  “Abelman thinks it’ll be good for you to get your side of the story on the record too,” she insists. “He says just because the law is on your side, that doesn’t mean the NOLA Police Department is. He says you’ve been dealing with some harassment?”

  “What the fuck?” Cash slams his beer atop the step with so much force I’m surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. “What harassment?”

  I lift one shoulder and let it fall. “Nothing much. An unmarked unit has followed me from town to the bayou a coupla times. And two mornings ago, I woke up to find one of my taillights smashed. I reckon it was one of the local cops hoping to pull me over for the infraction and, you know, maybe start some stuff.”

  “For shit’s sake,” Cash curses.

  “But I had a replacement light,” I’m quick to reassure him. “So…all’s well that ends well.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” he demands.

  “I did say something. To Abelman. He’s been documenting everything. Doing it all legal-like.”

  “So?” Maggie fidgets her locket between her fingers. “Will you come tomorrow?”

  My eyes snag on the filigreed heart, and something inside me snaps. “Why d’ya do that?”

  She glances from me to Cash, looking baffled. “Do what?”

  “Always cling to the locket I gave you.”

  She stares down at the silver heart in the palm of her hand. “Most times I don’t notice I’m doing it,” she admits. “But I suppose I reach for it because it’s my touchstone. It reminds me of my folks, of where I come from and who I am.”

  The throb of blood in my ears drowns out the low hum of merrymaking that’s coming from Bourbon Street. Notice she said nothing about it reminding her of me.

  “Why do I get the impression you wish I said something else?” Her eyebrows pinch together.

  Instead of answering, I pose a question of my own. “What time tomorrow morning?”

  “Eight sharp.” She’s still eyeing me in confusion.

  “I’ll be there.” As I round Smurf’s hood, I hear her call my name. She asks again if something is wrong. But I don’t stop. I hop behind the wheel and crank over the engine.

  Sometimes, when you’re hurting this bad, the only thing you can think to do is run.

  Chapter Seventy-six

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Some kinds of heartbreak make you flee. Others bring you home again.

  Experienced both in my nearly twenty-nine years. Not sure which hurts worse.

  But maybe that’s the whole damned point. Maybe if we never suffered the pain of heartbreak, we could never appreciate the joy of life.

  That’s what I tell myself as Luc drives away and I watch Maggie look around like she expects the reason behind his abrupt departure to pop up from the sidewalk like some handy-dandy jack-in-the-box of illumination.

  “What am I missing?” she demands of me.

  “What am I missing?” I ask in return, and she quickly looks away.

  Right. Mum’s the word because…whatever they got going, neither of them is ready to spill.

  Sighing, I stand from the stoop. “Still want to go sing karaoke? Or would you rather come inside and thumb through furniture catalogs to help me pick out some stuff?”

  She stares down at the bag of rice balls and then up at me. Something crosses her face, but it’s there and gone so quickly I can’t name what it is. Her shoulders are decidedly droopy. Luc’s departure has made her festive mood fall directly into the shitter. Eventually, she asks, “You got any milk?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Then let’s pick out some furniture,” she says without an ounce of enthusiasm, motioning for me to lead the way,.

  So this is what it feels like to be second best, huh? To be the runner-up in her affections?

  Didn’t think it was possible to respect Luc more than I already do, but this does it. Because this sucks balls.

  Inside, I hit the switch on the wall, and my attitude experiences a little lift when I hear a loud gasp behind me.

  “Oh my gosh, Cash!” She rushes into the middle of the room, her eyes wide with wonder. “I can’t believe how different this place looks from the last time I—”

  She stops herself. Last time she was here was New Year’s.

  To fill the awkward silence, I say, “Demolition, plumbing and electrical, installing new walls and windows, stripping and sanding every solid surface…that takes a long time. But now that we’re down to the cosmetic work, we’re trucking.”

  “I love the color on the walls,” she enthuses.

  “You should. You picked it out.”

  “And these floors.” She presses a hand to her chest. “They’re gorgeous.”

  “You don’t think they’re too dark?” I had to go a shade darker than I originally intended to cover the bloodstain that no amount of sanding could hide.

  “Oh, no. They’re perfect. And the light fixtures!” She points to the slightly industrial-looking chandelier in the dining room and then to the iron sconces above the fireplace mantel.

  “Luc picked out the lighting. You like it?”

  “I don’t like it. I love it.”

  When her eyes drift upward and she spies the wooden beams we installed to highlight the pitch of the ceiling, her mouth falls open. She blinks at me and points to the beams.

  Seeing her seeing the house fills me with pride and, dare I say, a smidge of happiness. “When you helped me pick out the kitchen cabinets, you pointed to a picture with beams like these. ‘Rustic and chic,’ I think is how you described them.”

  “They’re beautiful.” She pulls out a rice fritter and pops it into her mouth, spinning in slow circles, appreciating the changes that blood, sweat, and tears have wrought.

  That’s not only a saying. The floors and walls of this place hold pieces of me. Bits of my DNA. And maybe—if you believe in that kind of thing—a bit of my life force.

  “I can see how it’ll look when it’s all done,” she says. “It’s not just a house anymore, Cash. You’ve made it into a home. And think, forty years from now, you and me and Luc will be sitting in the courtyard, old and wrinkled and drinking sun tea. You’ll have given up the hooch by then.” She gives me a sharp look. “And we’ll be reminiscing about all the wonderful memories you made here. All the Mardi Gras bashes you threw. All the dinner parties.”

  My eyes prickle, but I play it off with, “Dinner parties?” I extend my hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Cash Armstrong. Have we met?”

  “You’ll see,” she says with a dip of her chin. “This place is so amazing you’ll want to open it up and share it as often as you can.”

  “Maybe,” I allow. “But first, I need to finish the fucker. Until then, the seating options are sti
ll crap.” I motion toward the folding chairs. “Take a load off. I’ll grab you a glass of milk to wash down those rice balls.”

  “Calas,” she calls to my back.

  In the newly installed kitchen, I open the refrigerator and stick my head inside, hoping the frosty air is enough to cool the burn of threatening tears.

  Forty years from now…

  When we’re old and wrinkled…

  It takes everything I have not to sink to my knees.

  Instead, I suck in a ragged breath and remind myself that The Plan is almost complete. The thought should bring me comfort. And yet the closer I get to the culmination of everything I’ve worked for, the more it hurts.

  I’m still not the man I want to be. The selfless man. The one who gladly, and with an open heart, lets go of the things he should. In short, I’m not Luc.

  Closing my eyes only makes that sonofabitching ringing in my ear louder. And this time it’s joined by flashes of multicolored lights that explode and fade behind my squeezed-tight lids. They make me dizzy, so I quickly open my eyes.

  Or at least I think I do.

  I see nothing but blackness.

  There’s enough time for panic to set in before I blink rapidly and my vision snaps back to normal. I stare at the inside of the mostly empty refrigerator, squinting against the harsh interior light, waiting for the blackness to return. But…the seconds tick by, and it never does.

  Holy demented shit. This brain thing is a complete cocksucker.

  Grabbing the milk, I quickly fill a glass, my nerves jangling like crazy. When I wander back to the living room, Maggie has made herself comfortable in a folding chair, a Restoration Hardware catalog open in her lap.

  “I like this one.” She points to a sectional sofa with clean lines, the look on her face saying she’s determined to make the best of this night despite Luc’s glaring absence. “It would look great in the middle of this room, facing the fireplace. And”—she flips a few pages backward—“what do you think of this coffee table? It’s not too modern, not too traditional. As Goldilocks would say, ‘It’s just right.’”

  “I like them if you like them.” After my momentary blindness, I’m amazed my voice sounds normal.

  “Mmm.” She dog-ears the pages and continues flipping while digging into the bag and pulling out another fritter. “You sure you don’t want one of these? You don’t know what you’re missing. I mean, I already had dinner and dessert tonight, but I can’t stop eating them. They’re so good I might be coming around to Auntie June’s way of thinking.”

  “No, thanks. My appetite has been shit lately. And before you start lecturing me about the booze”—I point to her face when she opens her mouth—“I know it’s not good for me. I know I’m only hurting myself worse than I’m already hurt. I know. I know. I know.”

  The pitying look in her eyes goes to work on my already roiling stomach like a razor blade. Shame sticks in my throat, and I have to change the subject.

  “What do you think of this mirror?” I reach over and turn a few pages in the catalog, stopping and pointing at the piece I mean.

  She frowns down at the oversize leaner mirror. “I like it. But it’s big. Where would you put it?”

  I point to the west wall, remembering too late it’s the wall.

  Leave it to Maggie to know what to say to make light of the situation. “Are you sure about that?” She lifts a teasing eyebrow. “If you put a mirror against that wall, you won’t be able to put Scarlet against it.”

  I try to chuckle, but it sounds more like I’m choking.

  “Maggie…” Her name feels at home in my mouth. Probably because it’s branded upon my heart. “I’m sorry you saw—”

  “Hush.” She’s quick to cut me off. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. I should be the one apologizing to you. Anytime poor Scarlet comes over, she’ll probably be scared to death some crazy lady will come bursting through the front door uninvited.”

  “No chance of that,” I assure her. “Scarlet won’t be coming back.”

  She covers her mouth. “Oh no! I ruined it for you, didn’t I? Cash, I’m so—”

  “You didn’t ruin a damned thing,” I interrupt before she can apologize again. “It was me. It’s always me.”

  Her eyebrows pinch together. “Why? Don’t you like her? I don’t know her all that well, but she’s always seemed nice. And I know she’s smart. She has her own CPA firm on Magazine Street. Plus, she’s really pretty and—”

  “I like her fine,” I interrupt again before she can list any more of Scarlet’s glowing attributes. “But she’s…” I can’t say, But she’s not you. I can’t say, Forget everything I’ve said since I’ve been back and love me. Please, Maggie, love me. So instead, I say, “She’s too good for me. I’m not fit for nice, smart, pretty women.”

  To prove my point, I pull out my flask and uncap it.

  Maggie quietly studies me until I begin to squirm under her inspection. “Any particular reason you’re looking at me like I’m a bug under a microscope?”

  “You try to make us all think you’re this macho, macho man, but underneath all your bullcrap and bluster, you’re really a nice guy.”

  I make a face. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “I’m serious, Cash.” She squeezes my knee, and the warmth of her palm seeps past my jeans. “And in case I haven’t told you, I’m so happy you came back home. Even if you did break my heart a little by saying we can only be friends.” She winks to let me know she’s teasing.

  “What if I said I take that back?”

  I don’t know who’s more surprised by the question, me, or her.

  Tonight, my bullcrap and bravado have deserted me, and all I’m left with is fear, heartbreak, and a gnawing desperation. Would it be so bad to be a little selfish? Don’t I deserve some happiness and comfort?

  “Are you serious?” Her voice is higher than usual.

  I am. And I’m not.

  Dammit! This gets harder every day.

  “Nah.” I shake my head, what little sanity I have left returning. Thank you, Saint Roch! “We’re better off as friends. But if I’m being honest, there are days I wish I’d waited until after prom to run off and join the army. Would’ve loved to see you in that dress. Luc told me you looked like a dream.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she demurs. Then, after a moment of silence, she adds, “You realize if you’d stayed, you would’ve been my first. Instead, it was Randy Barker.” She makes a face. “And not that I’m complaining or anything—Randy was super sweet—but neither of us knew what the heck we were doing, and it ended up being a total disaster. I’m surprised it didn’t put me off the act for life.”

  Her attempt to lighten the mood falls flat. The thought of her with another man makes something deep inside me ache like someone shoved a hot poker into my gut. Still, I try to play along. “Not Randy Barker of freshman year study hall, surely.”

  Her eyebrows arch. “You’ve been reading my letters.”

  “Correction.” I lift a finger. “I’ve read your letters. All 365 of them.”

  “Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose. “Sorry about that. I had a lot of feelings and emotions to work through back then. But I did warn you when I gave them to you.” She lifts a finger. “If you’ll recall, I said you should probably chuck them straight into the trash.”

  “I loved every word,” I assure her. And I did. Even though some of them made my throat hurt like I’d swallowed a shard of glass. “But back to me being your first. Maggie, you have to know, not having sex with you was the best sex I ever had.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asks with a snort of laughter.

  “No.” I shake my head, but stop when it makes me dizzy. “I mean, yes. Not having sex with you means that what you and I shared will stay true and pure forever.”

  “Well, I agree with the true part. But pure?” She nudges me with her elbow. “There were a couple of times out behind the gym and another
out at the swamp house that I know Father Fitzharris would have something to say about.”

  I grin because she expects it of me. And then for a while, we both fall silent.

  Glancing at the picture frame on the mantel, I think back to who we once were. Those crazy kids running around all wild and free. We thought we had it all. Thought we knew it all.

  What I wouldn’t give to be those kids again.

  Her brow is creased when she asks, “Were you truly kidding when you said you wanted to take back the ‘just friends’ thing?”

  I forget how to breathe. And when I remember, the air I suck into my lungs feels sharp and cold. “Would it make a difference if I wasn’t?”

  She glances down at her lap, absently fanning the edges of the catalog. A slew of emotions passes over her face, but by the time she turns her angel eyes toward me, the only ones left are regret and confusion.

  “I don’t know,” she admits honestly. “For so long, all I wanted was you. For you to come back. But now that you have, life has twisted around on me, and what I thought I wanted doesn’t make much sense. You’re right, Cash. What once was can’t stay the same. No matter how much we wish it could. It’s best to appreciate it for what it was and not try to make it something it isn’t. Besides, we are good as friends, aren’t we? We do make sense this way, don’t we?”

  Her gaze darts to the photo on the mantel. She doesn’t need to add, And then there’s Luc. Because it’s there in her eyes, pulsing in the air between us.

  My heart cracks in two. One side is consolation. The other is torment. And the line between the halves feels sharp and jagged.

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  It’s impossible to follow your heart when it’s more confused than your head.

  Considering my head is all sorts of flustered and flummoxed? Well…enough said.

  Luc has been his usual straight-shooting, thoughtful, and charismatic self throughout the interview with the pretty blond reporter from The Times-Picayune. Anyone looking in from the outside wouldn’t know a darned thing was wrong with him—including the reporter who, I swear, keeps fluttering her lashes every time he turns his soulful brown eyes on her—but I know.