It was there in the cool hello he gave me when he walked into Café Du Monde forty-five minutes ago and grabbed the seat next to Abelman instead of the one next to me. It’s there in the expression on his face whenever he glances at me—which isn’t often. And now that the reporter has finished her questions, it’s definitely there in the way he checks the time like he can’t wait to skedaddle on out of here as fast as his size twelves will carry him.
“I appreciate your candor this morning,” the reporter says, including both me and Luc in her gratitude even though her eyes linger on me for only a split second before returning to Luc. “The article will run in the Sunday edition. Be sure to look for it.”
Yeah. The article that should have me jumping for joy. The article that will do what I’ve been longing to do for over a decade, which is shout the truth of that night from a hilltop in a loud, clear voice. And yet…with Luc playing the part of Oscar the Grouch, the most I can manage is a vague sense of accomplishment.
It’s done. It’s out there. Or it will be on Sunday.
After the reporter leaves, Abelman says, “That went about as well as it could have. I think the two of you can officially put all of this bad business behind you.”
Luc shakes the lawyer’s hand and makes a joke about the check being in the mail. Then he watches sullenly as Abelman heads for the door. When the waitress comes to clear away the empty cups, she asks if either of us would like a refill.
“I’ll have another,” I say at the same time Luc says, “Just the check, please.”
The waitress glances back and forth between us. She’s too young to play off the obvious tension with a joke. Instead, she stands there, fidgeting uncomfortably.
After I give Luc a sharp look that says, Not so fast, mister, I turn a wide smile on her and say sweetly, “He’ll have another too.” She scurries off to fetch our refills, and I turn to him, my smile curving into a frown. “Are you planning to tell me why you keep looking at me like I’m last week’s tuna salad sandwich, or what?”
“Think I’ll go with or what,” he mutters.
I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t get it, Luc. First you kiss me and tell me you’re going to seduce me. Then you get the news that you’re off the hook for Sullivan, and suddenly you’re treating me like—”
“This doesn’t have a damned thing to do with Sullivan,” he says, the bitterness in his tone making me blink.
“Okay,” I say exasperatedly. “Then who does it have to do with?”
He regards me silently for a minute. I can see him debating with himself. Eventually, he says, “You sure you wanna do this here? Now?”
“Is there a reason why we shouldn’t?”
What in the world has gotten into him?
No matter how hard I rack my brain, I can’t think of a thing that’s happened between that kiss and right now that would cause this sudden change in him.
“Not really, I reckon,” he says and stops there. Which makes me want to scream.
“So?” I prompt, unable to keep the frustration from my voice.
“So last night, Cash told me ’bout you busting in on him and Scarlet on New Year’s Eve.”
I wait for him to go on. When he doesn’t, I try to figure out what that has to do with anything. When I can’t, I show how articulate I can be by saying, “Yeah. So?”
A muscle works in one side of his jaw. “So I asked you straight out if you came to me ’cause you wanted to be with me or ’cause you were aiming to get back at Cash. And you said it was 99 percent about me and only 1 percent about Cash.”
“Yeah. So?” I figure if it’s nice, say it twice.
“So you lied.” Now the muscles on either side of his jaw are going hog-wild. “And it was bad enough you telling me you changed your mind ’bout seeing where things might lead with us ’cause you found that letter Cash got from the doctor at Johns Hopkins, which made you realize how bad things are for him, which, in turn, made you claim you didn’t want to do anything to rock his boat. But now I hear the real reason you came to me was ’cause you walked in on him screwing another woman.”
The longer he talks, the louder his voice gets. By the time he’s finished, the folks at the tables around us are blatantly eavesdropping.
Heat floods my cheeks. That doesn’t stop me from giving them the stink eye, and scolding, “Y’all mind your own biscuits.”
They turn away, chagrined.
Aunt Bea would be mortified. But no one can accuse me of not having pluck.
The waitress arrives with our refills, which gives me blessed time to organize my thoughts. After she’s gone, I start enumerating points on my fingers.
“Number one, I didn’t lie to you. When I came out to the swamp, it was about wanting to be with you. Number two, if you remember correctly, I told you I wanted you while we were at the party, before I walked in on Cash and Scarlet, so that blows your timeline of events right out of the water. And number three…” I trail off. I’ve gotten myself so worked up I’ve forgotten number three. I end with, “So there!”
The look in his eyes is hot enough to fry an egg. “See, I might believe you, except when I asked if you would choose me or Cash if he was healthy and whole, you didn’t answer. You hesitated.”
“That’s not exactly the question you posed,” I remind him, wondering how he’d feel if he’d been a fly on the wall of Cash’s house last night. If he’d heard what I said.
“Close enough,” he argues.
“What do you want from me, Luc? You want me to say that because you and I have shared two kisses I no longer give a flying fig about Cash? If that’s what you’re after, I can’t give it to you. I’ll always care about him. He wasn’t simply my first love, he was my friend. He’s still my friend and—”
“Of course that’s not what I want.” He crosses his arms. It makes his biceps bulge.
I notice two women at the table across the way are making doe eyes at him. I scowl at them until they turn away, properly put in their places.
“Then what do you want?” I ask again. “Because danged if I can figure it out.”
“I want you to choose, Maggie May.”
My eyes go so wide they start burning. “Are you saying it’s him or you? That I can’t be friends with both of y’all anymore?”
“Hell no.” He acts offended that I would even suggest such an idea. “We’ll always be friends. No matter what. What I’m saying is you gotta choose whether friendship is all you want from me. Or whether you want something more. Then you gotta let me know. Until you do, you and I are gonna be crossways, ’cause as things stand right now, I’m feeling more than a bit jerked ’round. And I’m not too proud to admit I don’t care for it.”
Jerked around? Jerked around?
“How can you say that?” I demand. “I’m trying to do what’s right, dang it!”
“Right for who?” His eyes flash, and he doesn’t look like a poet now. He looks all bullheaded and…and…delicious. Down, girl. “’Cause you sure as shit aren’t aiming to do what’s right for me.”
Hot blood stings my cheeks. “I can’t believe you’re being so selfish. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about our friend who’s suffering and—”
“You’re trying to have your cake and eat it too!” he cuts me off.
I sputter, so offended I can’t form words.
“Call me when you know your own mind.” He pushes away from the table.
Before he can stand, I find my tongue. “So that’s it, then? No more Sunday brunches? No more excursions until I choose?”
“’Course there’ll be excursions and Sunday brunches.” He shakes his head at me like I’m the one being unreasonable. “You think I’d take those things away from Cash when they seem to be the only things he cares about anymore? What kinda man d’ya think I am?” Before I can tell him I’m starting to wonder, he goes on. “I’m saying no more holding hands. No more tugging on my ear. No more stolen kisses. If you want me, you
gotta come out and tell me. Until then, I’d appreciate you not doing me the way you did Cash.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t have words. And if I do, they’re lodged in my throat like irate porcupines.
Pulling some bills from his wallet, he tosses them on the table before standing and shrugging into his jacket. His parting shot before heading for the door, with every woman in the place watching him go is, “You go on and give that a good think.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
______________________________________
Luc
No one was put on this earth to go it alone. As the Blues Brothers say, Everybody needs somebody to love.
I love Magnolia May Carter.
Body and brain, heart and soul, every part of me belongs to her. So it’s about killed me deader than a road-running possum not to see her or talk to her in the week since I gave her… I reckon you’d have to call it an ultimatum.
I’ve missed her like crazy. I hardly sleep. I have trouble thinking about anything that isn’t her. I’d say I barely eat, but nothing puts me off my food.
I’ve gone back and forth a million times on whether I was too hard on her. On whether she has a point about keeping things on the DL for Cash’s sake.
I’ve composed two dozen text messages, only to stare at them for ten minutes before deleting them. I’ve driven by Bon Temps Rouler every evening after leaving Cash’s, even though it’s not on my way home. But I haven’t stopped.
I set this thing into motion, and now I have to see where it goes. Besides, this way, if and when she chooses me, I’ll know it’s not for lack of a better option, or because sexual tension has started swirling around us like cheap body spray. I’ll know it’s because she wants me, Lucien Dubois. No one else. Me.
Truth to tell, I’d hoped tonight’s dinner might offer me a clue which way she’s leaning. But we’ve managed to sit through an entire meal at Muriel’s Jackson Square without saying one word to each other. It’s been Cash who’s kept the dialogue going. And given he’s not much of the conversationalist nowadays, there’ve been more than a few awkward silences.
Now that our plates have been cleared, the check signed, and our after-dinner drinks delivered, he sits back and glances from me to her and back again. “So I take it you two still haven’t worked out your shit.”
Maggie sheepishly glances around the swanky dining room with its aged-brick walls and tables covered with fine china and fancy silverware. Folks are dressed up, enjoying expensive wine and the sounds of the three-piece band playing soft jazz in the corner.
“Language,” she scolds him, then blithely disregards his statement by asking, “Have you heard anything more from Broussard? Does Rick have a start date for his trial?”
Cash narrows his eyes. He’s no dummy. He knows a conversational sleight of hand when he hears one.
For a second, I think he’ll press her. Then he shrugs. “The trial starts at the end of the month.”
“Soon,” I say, surprised at how quickly the DA has put together his case. Then again, Broussard said Rick wasn’t exactly Machiavellian in his bookkeeping, so…yeah.
“The sooner the better,” Cash declares with feeling.
Spinning her glass of Sazerac atop the table, Maggie cocks her head. “What’s going to happen to all his businesses when he’s in prison? Tell me they’ll be sold off and the profits used to pay back his victims. I’m just now beginning to believe there’s justice in the world, what with the charges against Luc getting dropped and everything. Please don’t ruin that for me.”
“If he’s convicted—” Cash starts to say, but she interrupts and stresses, “When he’s convicted.”
“Right.” Cash nods, and I hope beyond hope her optimism is justified. “Then the city will confiscate his assets and do its best to make whole those he swindled.”
“Excellent.” She claps her hands together and then smoothes back the swoop of hair she’s arranged over her brow when it slides down to cover one eye.
Tonight she’s wearing a forest-green dress with a patent leather belt and black, stacked heels. She went a bit heavy-handed with the eyeliner, which makes her eyes look even bluer than they already are.
“Excellent is right,” Cash agrees. “I quite like the thought of Rick being penniless once he gets out of prison.”
“That’s assuming he lives long enough to get out,” I counter. “Rick doesn’t strike me as the kinda guy who’ll do well in lockup. His pride and ego are liable to get him in serious trouble straight outta the shoot.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.” Cash looks toward the ceiling.
“You don’t believe in God,” I remind him.
“Never hurts to cover my bases. Although, on second thought, I don’t want Rick taking the easy way out. I want him doing his time.”
“With him safe and sound behind bars and the cottage almost complete,” Maggie says, “you can move on from the past and start focusing on your future. Maybe start eating right.” She doesn’t have to mention that Cash barely touched his turtle soup or his shrimp and grits. We all took note of that. “Maybe start laying off the Gentleman Jack too,” she adds, staring at his rocks glass. It’s half full of whiskey.
Beneath the table, I nudge her foot.
If Cash catches wind of our plan to stage an intervention (or if he even suspects we might), he’ll go to ground like a damned mole, or lock himself inside his house. The trick to getting him to rehab will be catching him off guard. Attack him with love and concern when he least expects it.
I reckon Cash will immediately jump into an argument. (The man does not shy away from confrontation, that’s for damned sure.) But to my surprise, he ignores her. “Since we’re on the subject of moving on from the past, how do you feel now that the article about Dean and his dad has run?”
The article…
For two days, our story was the talk of the town. Then, The Times-Picayune reporter got a few police officers to go on the record detailing more of Sullivan’s corruption and the news cycle quickly moved on, forgetting all about us.
Maggie squints at him. “Nice segue.”
“Smoother than yours was,” he agrees with a slow grin.
Since she can’t argue the point, she answers his question. “Honestly? It feels a bit… I don’t know. Not anticlimactic exactly. But…useless maybe? Senseless? For ten years, all I wanted was to tell the truth. And now I have. But that doesn’t change the fact that two men are dead. And I don’t care if they were good men or bad men, because they were here and now they’re not, and I can’t help wondering…what was the point of it all?”
“That’s life for you,” Cash declares. “When it gives you what you want, you realize what you want isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Lord, that’s a depressing thought,” Maggie grumbles.
Cash pushes back his chair and raps his knuckles on the table. “On that note, let’s do what we came here to do.”
When he stands and walks toward the staircase, Maggie looks at me with a fierce frown. “Thanks for the help a minute ago. You might’ve jumped in and seconded my opinion about it being a good time for him to start taking better care of himself.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t spook him,” I tell her. “We gotta play our cards close to our vest if we wanna—”
“Whatever.” She tosses her napkin atop the table and stands.
I’m about as cranky as a barrel full of snakes by the time I join her and Cash at the foot of the stairs. But Cash seems oblivious. He wiggles his eyebrows and says, “You guys ready for some paranormal activity?”
Muriel’s Jackson Square, like many of the historical spots in the city, boasts a resident ghost.
The building was originally a holding facility for slaves, but in the early 1800s, a gentleman by the name of Pierre Jourdan purchased the property and lovingly refitted it into a showpiece of a home. Unfortunately, old Jourdan had himself a bit of a gambling problem. He lost the house in a ha
nd of poker. So the story goes, he was so devastated on the day he was due to move out, he killed himself in a room on the second floor.
The restaurant owners embraced the building’s macabre past by turning the second-floor room where Jourdan committed suicide into what’s known as the Séance Lounge. They even go so far as to set up a table for Jourdan every night, complete with wine and bread, should his spirit decide to partake.
As I follow Cash and Maggie up the stairs, I ask Cash, “Why’d you put this on the list of excursions anyway? You usually don’t go in for this kinda stuff.”
As soon as I say the words, I realize how wrong I am. Cash didn’t used to go in for this stuff. Lately, however, he seems to be seeking out the more otherworldly attractions of our fair city.
“Maybe I’ve never gone in for this stuff because I never had a reason to go in for it,” he says.
“And what’s your reason now?”
He points to the scar above his temple, which doesn’t look half bad compared to the still-healing wound across his forehead. “When you get as close to death as I did, you start to wonder if it’s possible there is something more. Or maybe you start to hope there is.”
An uneasy feeling scratches at the base of my skull. It’s like there’s something I’m missing. Something at the edge of my vision, but every time I turn to look at it, it disappears.
And no. It’s not Jourdan’s ghost.
Choosing a seat on a brocade sofa piled high with velvet pillows, Cash pats the space next to him. Maggie obliges, balancing her Sazerac on her knee. She leaves the other end of the sofa open for me. But I know if I sit beside her, there’ll be no way to keep from brushing against her.
I might be cranky, but I’m not a masochist.
Grabbing a round, tufted ottoman, I pull it in front of them.
From the gilt mirror to the heavy red curtains held back by silk rope, from the shiny gold replica of an Egyptian sarcophagus to the abundance of beads and ornate antique furniture, the whole room screams New Orleans excess and kitsch. Groups of folks are scattered around, speaking in hushed tones. What happened here all those years ago seems to call for quiet. But there’s still the occasional burst of laughter or squeal of delight.
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 11
