Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3

by Julie Ann Walker

  “I’ve heard objects go flying across the room sometimes.” Maggie shivers, getting into the spirit of things.

  “If that’s true, I reckon it’s the work of a human hand and not a ghostly one,” I tell her.

  She scowls. “Spoilsport.”

  “Children, children,” Cash scolds. “The ghost of Pierre Jourdan isn’t going to feel comfortable making an appearance with you two squabbling.”

  Maggie continues to frown at me, but dutifully clamps her mouth shut. For the next couple of minutes, the three of us absorb the atmosphere, which feels less like it’s filled with a spectral presence and more like it’s filled with air from the kitchen.

  It’s hot in here.

  Shrugging out of my sports coat, I catch Maggie appreciating the way my dress shirt clings to my shoulders. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been grinning like a possum eating a sweet tater to see want for me in her eyes. Now? I’m hankering for so much more that all I can manage is a dark glower.

  When she sees me frowning at her, a blush sneaks up her neck to stain her cheeks. She lowers her eyes, concentrating needlessly hard on the liquor in her glass.

  “How long do you think you’ll be remembered after you die?” Cash leans back against the sofa.

  Here we go again. “This preoccupation you’ve developed with death is starting to concern me,” I tell him.

  “It’s not a preoccupation with death,” he counters. “It’s a preoccupation with life. With the big questions of life. And I realize you’ve probably been pondering them in that sensitive soul of yours since you were old enough to read Nietzsche, but some of us are only now coming around to them.”

  He grins, and it reminds me of the old Cash. It’s a grin that says, Come on. Lighten up.

  “I suppose it depends on if you’re famous, or if you come back as a ghost,” Maggie muses. “I mean, famous folks end up in the history books, so they’re remembered for centuries. And if you come back as a ghost, well…” Her eyes widen as she gestures around the room. “I guess you’re remembered for as long as the place you’re haunting stays standing.”

  “Yeah,” Cash says, “but even then people only know of you. They don’t know you. So is that truly being remembered?”

  “It’s a preposterous question to begin with,” I say. “What does it matter how long you’re remembered after you’re dead? You’re dead. You won’t care.”

  “Not true.” Cash lifts a finger. “If you’re not a believer in a spiritual afterlife, then the only parts of you that remain here on earth after your body is turned to dust are the parts you leave behind in the hearts and minds of others.”

  “So you answered your own question. You’re remembered as long as the folks you loved, and the folks who loved you, are alive and well.”

  “Which is all fine and good for people who have kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. Their legacy, their memory, can stretch on for decades. But what about people who die young? Not only are they robbed of a long life, but they’re also robbed of a long afterlife.”

  I frown as I ponder his statement. “You aren’t thinking about life and death the right way. It shouldn’t matter how long you live, or how long you’re remembered after you die. The only thing that holds any consequence is what you do with the time you have.”

  “It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years?” Cash asks. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “But for a reason. It happens to be true.”

  He tucks his tongue in his cheek. “Did we just answer the biggest question of all? What is the meaning of life?”

  Maggie chuckles. “Nietzsche’s got nothing on us.”

  Cash grins at her, but then suddenly grunts and sits forward to test the scar above his temple with his fingers. He follows the circle of raised flesh to the new line of wounded skin across his forehead.

  Maggie lays a hand on his arm. “You okay?”

  “Hate to break up this party before old Jourdan makes an appearance,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But some sonofabitch just drove a railroad spike through my brain. Better go home and crawl into bed.”

  Worry worms through me. He’s been sleeping a lot lately. When I arrive at the house for work in the mornings, more often than not, I have to haul his ass out of bed. And by the time we’re done for the evening, he’s already making noises about slipping beneath the covers.

  I’ve been blaming it on the booze, the bad nutrition, and the long hours of physical labor, but… Could it be something else? Could that concussion have exacerbated his condition?

  “Maybe you should go see that VA doc again,” I say. “You might be suffering some side effects from Rick’s attack.”

  “Things will get better once we’re finished with the cottage,” he assures me, emptying his glass and setting it on an antique side table. “I’ll be able to rest and recuperate.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “Don’t mollycoddle me, Luc. You know I hate it when you do that.”

  A muscle ticks in my jaw as I bite back the words longing to come out. Bowing to his will and his pride, I say instead, “I’m surprised a Yankee like yourself knows the meaning of the word mollycoddle.”

  “Twelve years of being your friend and I reckon I’d hafta be dumber than a bag of hammers and useless as tits on a boar not to have picked up a thing or two.”

  One corner of my mouth twitches as I turn to Maggie and hook a thumb toward Cash. “Do I really sound like that?”

  Her nose crinkles. “Honestly?”

  I laugh. We all laugh, and just that easily my mood lifts.

  Maybe Cash is right. Maybe after we finish the house, he can rest, go to rehab, and start getting his life back on track.

  I ignore how hollowly the thought rings inside my head.

  Outside, Maggie and I turn to follow him toward his house, but he stops us. “Go on and walk Maggie home, Luc,” he says to me. “I can find my own way back.” Then he glances at Maggie. “No need for you to go out of your way.”

  “It’s not that far out of my way,” she assures him. “And I’d—”

  “Please,” he interrupts. “My head is killing me. I just want to get home as fast as I can, with the least amount of chitchat possible.”

  “Okaaay,” she hesitantly agrees. When he strides purposefully away, she watches his back, her mouth pinched with worry. After he disappears around a corner, she snaps her chin my way. “He’s getting worse.”

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “Hang on for a couple more weeks.” I motion for her to precede me down the sidewalk and then fall into step behind her. I keep my eyes focused straight ahead so they won’t linger on the way the soft fabric of her dress nips in at her waist and then flows lovingly over her hips. “After that, the house should be finished, hopefully Rick’s trial will be over, and Cash will be more open to spending some time in rehab.”

  “It’s not only his drinking that’s getting worse. It’s his head. I’m not sure rehab can help with that.”

  “But it can’t hurt, right? Once he’s dried out, then we can try to tackle what’s going on with his brain injury.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” she grudgingly agrees.

  We walk on in silence for a few blocks, letting the cool breeze and the sounds of the buskers doing their best to wow the tourists with their musical genius hold sway over our conversation. But when we pass Toulouse Street, the crowds thin and the music dies down to a distant murmur. I glance over at her.

  “I missed you this week,” I admit quietly, unable to hide from that simple truth.

  She turns to me, and the air between us pulses like Harry Potter’s lightning-bolt scar. “And whose fault is that?” she demands. “You want to give me an ultimatum? Fine. That’s your prerogative. But you said we were going to stay friends no matter what. And yet I didn’t get one text or phone call from you all week long.”

  “I meant we�
�ll stay friends after you decide whatcha want, Maggie May,” I explain gently. “Until then, I reckon it’s better if we stay in our own lanes. We’re less likely to hurt each other that way.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you at all.” Her voice is determined. And a bit overwrought. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. That’s the whole point of—”

  “I’m not aiming to go through this with you again.” I sigh. “You know how I feel.” Unlike the last time, I keep my temper in check. And after a while, I venture, “Have you missed me?”

  My heart stops beating as I await her answer.

  “Of course I have, you butthead!”

  I might’ve pumped a victorious fist if not for that whole butthead thing. Not to mention, her words were snarled between her clenched teeth.

  “Which is why I’m mad at you now,” she adds, turning onto her street. I can see the giant ferns on her balcony, dripping their long, lacy fronds over the edge. “You’re making this so much harder than it has to be.”

  “No one ever said life and love are easy, Maggie May. They only ever say they’re worth it.”

  “Oh, spare me your existential bullcrap.” She stomps up to the wrought-iron gate leading to her courtyard and is through it before I can think of a comeback.

  Just as well, I reckon. I was about two seconds away from kissing her.

  And damn my ultimatum.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning.

  Ever since our dinner at Muriel’s Jackson Square last week, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Drowning in confusion over my feelings for Cash and Luc. Drowning in regret over being mad at Luc when, the truth is, after what happened when we were kids, I understand why he now feels like he has to ask me to choose. And drowning in the fear and loneliness his absence has left behind.

  He asked if I’ve missed him?

  Lord, I’ve missed him so much I can barely stand myself.

  Heartache is such a strange feeling. An odd combination of longing and remorse.

  “Heavens, girl.” Auntie June cuts into my thoughts. “The face you’re wearing would turn sweet milk into clabber. What’s going on inside your head?”

  With Carnival season coming up soon, we’ve spent the morning in Aunt Bea’s kitchen making king cakes. It’s our yearly tradition to get them ready early and then freeze them until they’re needed. Once the festivities start, there’s no time for baking.

  I clench my teeth around the story bubbling inside me. She doesn’t need to be burdened with my woes. And honestly? I’m a little ashamed of myself for feeling overwhelmed by the situation.

  She and Aunt Bea didn’t raise me to be a withering wallflower who sits in the corner and waits to see how things shake out. They raised me to throw back my shoulders, make a decision, and then live with the consequences. Paralyzing fear isn’t something either of them has ever shown much sympathy for.

  But like an unsupported levee, I can’t keep the words in. They come gushing out of me. By the time we’ve put the cakes in the oven, set the egg timer, and taken ourselves out to the front porch swing to enjoy some sweet sun tea, I’ve unloaded the entire kit and caboodle onto her aged shoulders.

  Chancing a peek at her face after I’m finished, I grimace. “Do you think I’m a coward for wanting to stop things with Luc before they start?”

  “Depends, I suppose,” she answers in that straightforward way of hers that always makes me glad to have her in my life. “Are you really doing it because you’re concerned about how Cash will take the news in his current condition? Or are you doing it because you’re afraid to tell Luc you were wrong to let him kiss you because you’re really still in love with Cash?”

  I rub my temples and close my eyes, examining my feelings for the bazillionth time and still coming no closer to figuring them out.

  “I don’t know,” I admit wretchedly. “I don’t know if I’m still in love with Cash. I don’t know if I’m falling in love with Luc. All I know is, I love them both. I don’t want to do anything to hurt either of them. And I certainly don’t want to do anything to lose either of them.”

  Auntie June sighs and pats my thigh. “I don’t think you’re a coward, honey. But I do think you’re in quite a pickle.”

  Those so aren’t the words I was longing to hear.

  “Auntie June,” I whine, lifting my hands. “Don’t you have any advice for me? Something profound and wise beyond years?”

  Her expression is full of regret. “When it comes to affairs of the heart, it doesn’t matter if you’re eight or eighty-three, things remain a mystery.”

  Sighing dejectedly, I cover her aged hand with my own and give it a squeeze. Then we sit and swing in silence, watching as Yard sniffs around the flower beds. When he pops his head up to look back at us, he finds Auntie June scowling at him, daring him to dig up one of her plants, and quickly goes back to sniffing.

  It’s a gorgeous winter day. The kind you get only in the South, where the air is warm and sweet, and the sky is cloudless and as blue as a robin’s egg.

  Too bad I can’t enjoy it.

  “It all feels so…” I shrug in defeat. “I don’t know. Cliché maybe? It’s a love triangle, for Pete’s sake. Who do I think I am? Bella Swan? Katniss Everdeen? Bridget Jones without the cool British accent?”

  “You watch too many movies.” Auntie June frowns.

  “Books,” I tell her. “I read too many books. They’re always better than the movies.”

  “Say that when you’re my age and your eyes are shot. Why do the words have to be so tiny? And don’t get me started on that e-reader your sister bought me last Christmas. I know it enlarges the print, but there’s something unnatural about reading a book on a screen, with no pages or jacket or smell of printing-press ink.” She shudders to prove her point.

  “Kids these days.” I make a tching sound, surprising myself with the joke. I didn’t think I had it in me today.

  She grins, giving me a nudge, before sobering, and saying, “But back to your problem.” I groan. It is a problem. A big, honking, stinking one. “When you’re talking about love, be it in triangle form or otherwise, it’s never cliché. It’s always unique because the folks involved are unique.”

  My shoulders droop so low they pull at their sockets. “So here I am, still not knowing what’s the right thing to do.”

  “You will in time,” she assures me. “Because while I truly believe it’s possible for you to love and even be in love with both of them, I also believe only one of them is right for you. The question is, which one?”

  That is the question. And pondering it sends my stomach into fits. I think I might be developing an ulcer.

  Her faded blue eyes linger on my face for a while longer. Then she looks out at the ancient live oak trees. A winter wren lands on a branch, cocking its curious head and singing us a cascading melody before fluttering away.

  Oh, to be a bird and fly far, far away.

  Then again, running away from her troubles never worked for Forrest Gump’s Jenny, and history has shown it never works for me either. My pesky troubles always catch up with me. And usually, by that point, they’re so mad at having to chase me down that they bite me on the ass.

  “Did I ever tell you my Jack was sweet on Bea before he was sweet on me?” Auntie June asks softly.

  “Wait.” I stop the rocking of the swing by planting my toe on the veranda’s floorboards. “What?”

  “Yep.” She nods. “He and Bea were in the same class at school. For a few months, they secretly dated. I say ‘secretly’ on account of our daddy was a strict sonofagun. He didn’t let us out for casual dates, only for formal affairs. Which means Bea didn’t tell me about Jack until he asked her to homecoming.” The look in her eyes is full of chagrin. “But when he came to pick her up for the dance, his hair all slicked back with Brylcreem, our eyes met and…sparks, honey.” Sh
e sighs. “Sparks like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Oh my God!” My hand jumps to my mouth. “What happened?”

  “After homecoming, Daddy started letting Jack come around to see Bea.” Her wrinkled lips twist. “And see me, too, since Daddy would send me out to sit with them on the front porch to act as chaperone.”

  I shake my head, seeing it all in my mind’s eye. Two pretty sisters. One charming young Cajun. Soft Southern nights with Bing Crosby crooning on the radio.

  “Little by little, Jack and me…well, we got to know each other. And little by little, those sparks between us grew into a fire. But we both loved Bea so much, and neither of us wanted to hurt her.”

  “What did you do?” I ask breathlessly, happy to forget about my own troubles for a while. But not so happy to find out that, apparently, love triangles run in the family.

  “I didn’t do anything.” She shakes her head. “Like you, I didn’t know what to do. Or maybe I was too scared to do anything.” She sends me a sympathetic look. “But my Jack…he wasn’t too scared. He looked at me and he looked at Bea and he looked at the life ahead of him and decided I suited him best. Even back then, Bea liked pretty dresses and fancy parties and the finer things in life. But Jack was all about the simple stuff. Good music. Good food. A cool pillow to lay his head on at night. He knew the two of us, him and me, we simply…suited. So he drove all three of us down to the river one night and broke the news to Bea and to me. He told Bea he loved her, would always love her, but that I was the girl meant for him.”

  She swallows and stares down at her left hand, fiddling with the simple gold wedding band that she’s never removed even though “Good Time” Jack Goudeau has been dead for nearly thirty years.