Pulling reading glasses from his breast pocket, Toussaint perches them on the end of his nose and begins. “‘I, Cassius Armstrong, of New Orleans, Louisiana, being of full age, sound mind, memory and understanding, but aware of the fleeting nature of life, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament.’”
Maggie swallows noisily. It’s not the last will part that gets to her. I know because that’s not the part that gets to me. It’s the last testament part. These are Cash’s final words. The last we’ll ever hear from him.
“‘First, I declare that I am not married and have no issue because I didn’t have time,’” Toussaint continues. “‘Life is cruel. That’s a fact. But it’s also incredibly sweet, and I don’t regret a minute of the time I did have.’” Toussaint winces and looks at us over his glasses. “I counseled Mr. Armstrong away from including personal statements in his will, but he told me if these were his last words, then, by God, he was going to say what he wanted to say.”
Despite everything, I feel the corners of my mouth curve. “Sounds ’bout right.”
“Yes, well…” Toussaint clears his throat and goes on reading. “‘Second, it is my wish that there be no formal funeral of any kind after my death and that my remains be promptly given into the custody of Lucien Armstrong and Magnolia Carter who will know what to do with my body.’”
Maggie glances at me in confusion, and I recognize the heavy feeling that settles in the bottom of my stomach. It’s foreboding. I look at the ceiling and quietly think, You couldn’t have made this easy on me, could you, man?
“I’m to understand you have a mausoleum on a piece of private property?” Toussaint lifts an eyebrow that’s a shade or two lighter than his hair.
“I do.” I nod. “After my father died, my mother petitioned the Louisiana Cemetery Board and had a small patch of our family land rezoned as a graveyard.”
Maggie wrinkles her nose. “Cash wanted to be buried in your family tomb?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “He wanted a Viking funeral, remember?”
“Oh sweet Lord.” Her hand covers her mouth.
Toussaint’s brow wrinkles. “I feel it’s my duty as an attorney to advise you that our great state prohibits the burial of human remains anywhere but in an established cemetery.”
“Duly noted, sir.” I nod, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Good God, this is so like Cash. A pain in the rear even after he’s gone.
“Okay, then.” Toussaint continues reading. “‘Third, I direct that all of my just debts, last illness expenses, if any, and the cost of the administration of my estate be paid out of the assets of my estate as soon after my demise as may be practicable. Fourth, I direct that all inheritance, estate, transfer, succession, and other death taxes and duties imposed by any jurisdiction whatsoever by reason of my death be paid from the principal of my residuary estate without apportionment.’” He stops once again and peers at us over the frames of his glasses. “This is simply legalese meaning that the money in his bank accounts is to be used to pay the last of his bills and the taxes the two of you will incur from your inheritance.”
“So let me get this straight,” Maggie says. “Cash paid taxes on the money he made in life. And now that he’s dead, we have to pay taxes again on that money? That’s double taxation!”
“That’s America,” Toussaint counters.
I barely pay attention to their back-and-forth. I’m too hung up on the word inheritance. I hadn’t actually thought about Cash leaving us his possessions. Which seems silly, since I knew we were coming here for a reading of his will. I guess I just thought…
Hell, I don’t know what I thought. But I know what I think. The word inheritance seems so final. So official.
Cash Armstrong is dead.
No matter how many times I say it to myself, it still has the ability to catch me by surprise. (And leave me reeling with grief.) I have to swallow down the lump in my throat or risk choking on it.
“‘Sixth, I give all my tangible personal property, including the Creole cottage and all of its contents located on Orleans Avenue, New Orleans, to Lucien Dubois and Magnolia Carter equally. It was a labor of love for the two most important people in my life, and it is my hope that they live long and happy lives there together.’”
Those last few words seem to hang in the air and vibrate like a struck tuning fork.
Maggie turns to me, her mouth hanging open. “He knew about us?”
Of course he did. In the month or so before his death, we weren’t exactly James Bond-covert in our feelings for each other. Then a thought occurs, and I look at Toussaint. “How long ago did he add that part you just read?”
“About leaving the cottage to y’all?” he asks, and I nod. “It was there on day one. Like I said, he purchased the house and then came to see me to make sure it would go to you and Miss Carter. His father—” He shakes his head. “Pardon me. His sperm donor was alive at the time, and he didn’t want the cottage going to him.”
“But that last line. About me and Maggie May living long and happy lives there together. When did he add that?”
Toussaint looks confused. “Like I said, on day one.”
I sit back in my chair, stunned. My mind races through everything Cash ever said since we came back to New Orleans, everything he ever did. In a blinding flash, it all becomes clear.
“That was his plan all along,” I say, watching tears stream down Maggie’s cheeks. “He came back here to bring us together.”
Chapter Ninety-one
______________________________________
Maggie
Everything that has a beginning also has an ending. Make your peace with that, and all will be well.
Someone posted that on their Instagram feed this morning. You know what I’m talking about, right? Those little graphics with the words printed in bold type across a background picture of a sunset or a starlit sky or a mountaintop?
Usually, I roll my eyes and scroll past, thinking that people who post that crap are trying to convince the world—and themselves—that they’re deep. But I didn’t thumb by this morning. Instead, I sat and stared at the post for a long time.
It wasn’t the first line that struck me. Duh. There’s no big epiphany there. It was the second line that held my attention.
How the heck do you make peace with the death of someone you’ve loved with your whole heart? How is not being able to see them, talk to them, hug them ever okay?
I know from experience that it’s possible to come to accept death. My folks are gone. They’re never coming back. I acknowledge this on every level. But make peace with it?
No.
Never.
The pain will always be there. The anger at the unfairness of it all will always be there. There’s no peace for those left living. But there is still comfort. Happiness. There’s still love.
If we’re lucky, that’s enough to get us through.
I’m in the middle of polishing a pilsner glass when this thought occurs, and my eyes naturally track over to Luc.
He’s positioning a giant photo of Cash on a tripod atop the little stage in the corner of the bar. This afternoon, I cleared out the tourists and regulars and hung a handmade sign on the door that reads, “Closed for a private event.”
Cash didn’t want a traditional funeral. But his will said nothing about a memorial service.
Luc feels my gaze and turns to me. He doesn’t need to say anything about how sad this day is, or how much he loves me. It’s all there in his eyes.
I blow him a kiss and imagine it lands softly on his lips. That makes him smile. Makes those dimples pop.
Auntie June once told me you can tell a lot about a man from his smile. I thought it was horse hockey at the time. But now I’m not so sure.
Looking at Cash’s picture—a photo Luc snapped on his phone a couple of months ago and had blown up for the occasion—I can see the mischief in the tilt of his lips, the devilishness
in the curves of his cheeks, and the mystery of him in the flash of his teeth. Cash was a complex individual. Inscrutable until the end.
I don’t doubt that he loved me. But I’ve come to realize I never actually knew him. Not the whole of him. There were always parts he kept locked away, secret from the world.
In contrast, Luc’s smile is as open as the summer sky. So warm, so true, with a whole lot of love and a little bit of wildness thrown in for good measure. It’s a smile that warms my soul at the same time it turns my whole body into melted goo. A smile I could stare at for the rest of my life without ever getting tired of it.
A smile I intend to stare at for the rest of my life.
My man.
It’s a simple phrase, and yet the enormity of it hits me with hurricane-force winds. Luc is my man. He’s mine. Heart and body and soul. Nothing withheld. Nothing hidden.
And I’m his.
His woman.
If there’s any peace in this life, there’s peace in that. In the certainty of it. The security and serenity of it.
They say a good man is hard to find. But not in my case. He was right in front of me the whole time.
“You think we’ll be getting our letters today?” I ask as I line up shot glasses on the bar and uncap two bottles of Gentleman Jack.
After the lawyer finished reading Cash’s will, I said something about how sad it was that those words, words more full of legal mumbo jumbo than of heart, would be the last we’d ever hear from Cash. Toussaint was quick to correct me. “That’s not true. Mr. Armstrong told me he wrote each of you a letter and gave it into the keeping of someone close to you. I expect you’ll be receiving them soon enough.”
“I reckon so,” Luc says now. “Everyone who was close to him or us is gonna be here, and it seems like the time to do it.”
“I bet he gave them to your mom.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
Before I can speculate more, the front door opens, and Jean-Pierre pushes inside. He’s dressed in jeans and a green flannel shirt. Since Cash hated dressing up, I didn’t suppose he’d think much of people roaming around his memorial service in somber suits and dresses. So on the announcement, I wrote, Come in your favorite flannel.
“Do you have the music?” I ask anxiously as Jean-Pierre skirts the bar, stopping momentarily to scratch Yard’s ears, before placing a kiss on my cheek.
“Me, I got it all right here, cher.” He pats the phone in his hip pocket.
Yesterday I took the list labeled Popular Songs of Our Time from the time capsule Luc and Cash buried beneath the Singing Oak and gave it to Jean-Pierre. I asked him to use it to make a playlist for today’s service.
“Thank you. You’re the best.”
He bats a hand. “That goes without sayin’, mais yeah?” Then he gets serious. “You doin’ okay?”
I swallow as tears flood my eyes. The mourning process is so strange. You think you’re okay, you feel okay, and then someone asks you if you’re okay, and that’s when it hits you that you’re not. Not at all.
I sniffle and shake my head. He pulls me into a hug.
“Sorry I’m late!” The front door bursts open and Vee glides in. “We got stuck behind a wedding procession, but I’m here now. Not to worry. And I padded the schedule by fifteen minutes, so that should give us plenty of time to get the food arranged before everyone starts arriving.”
She directs the three caterers loaded down with trays toward the back of the bar, where I’ve set up long folding tables. I left the food choices up to her. Everything but the beignets, which I picked up fresh and piping hot half an hour ago.
“Thank you so much for taking care of this,” I tell her, leaning over the bar to accept the kiss she plants on my cheek.
“What are sisters for?” Her eyes are bright with sympathy when she sees my own are red and puffy.
“Whewee!” Jean-Pierre takes off his fedora and fans his face with it, giving Vee the onceover. “Who knew you had all dat goin’ on under all dem fancy pantsuits?”
Vee’s wearing a flannel shirt tied at her waist and a pair of jeans that show off her curves. She blushes, but plays it off by striking a pose, hand on hip. “Eat your heart out,” she tells Jean-Pierre.
Then she notices Yard has made his way over to the food tables and is looking mighty intently at the dishes the caterers are in the process of uncovering. She mumbles something under her breath about cutting off another of his legs if he so much as puts a nose above the table, and marches in his direction.
The door opens again to admit Luc’s mom, and the outside air wafts in after her, bringing with it the smell of late winter. It’s an indefinable scent of wet streets and dry leaves mixed with a tinge of budding foliage.
It’s the smell of an ending and a beginning, all rolled into one.
As I glance again from Cash’s picture over to Luc, who’s folding his mother into a bear hug, I can’t help thinking how fitting that smell is. How apropos for everything that’s happening.
Helene puts a hand on Luc’s cheek, looking up at him as only a mother can, and then she swings in my direction. I square my shoulders and paste on a smile as she rounds the bar. But it slides off my face when she stops in front of me, her expression tender. “I’m so sorry, Maggie.”
Tears, never far from the surface these days, fill my eyes and slip over my bottom lids.
“Come here.” She pulls me in for a hug. I close my eyes, accepting the comfort she offers.
When other people would let go and step back, she hangs on. And that makes the tears come faster. But eventually, she holds me at arm’s length and uses her thumbs to brush the salty wetness from my cheeks.
“I won’t offer you any platitudes,” she tells me. “You know they’re nothing but claptrap anyway. But I’m here for you if you need me. I could never replace your own momma, but I’ve got a momma’s ear I’d be happy to lend you.”
“Thank you, Helene.” My voice is gritty and raw. It matches the state of my heart.
She slips an arm around my waist, and we turn to see Luc quietly arranging the tables and chairs, affording us a moment of privacy. He instinctively understands that the grief shared between two people—and any consolation they can give each other in a moment—is unique to them and them alone.
“You raised one heck of a good man,” I whisper to her. “Thank you for that.”
Her smile is soft. Her eyes are softer as she stares at her son. “I wish I could take all the credit. But he’s got so much of his daddy in him.”
“I wish I’d met him,” I admit quietly.
“He would’ve loved you for how much you love his boy and how happy you make him. Lord knows I love you for it.”
I take her hands into my own. “I do love Luc,” I swear to her. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I don’t know why it took me so long to understand. But I see now. I understand now. And I want to make him happy, always. I never want to cause him a moment’s pain.”
She shakes her head. “Well, that’ll be impossible. True love is beautiful, but it isn’t easy. When the hard times come, you’re bound to hurt each other. But if and when that happens, you have to do three things. Remember why you fell in love in the first place. Be quick to forgive each other for mistakes or words spoken in anger. And promise never to give up on each other.”
When my eyes fill with tears again, she clucks her tongue. “Aw, honey.” She puts an arm around my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to get through this.” Then she shakes her head. “Damn. I ended up giving you platitudes anyway, didn’t I?”
I don’t have time to answer. The front door opens, and the mourners start arriving, each dressed in a flannel shirt, until the bar fills up with what looks like a convention of loggers.
I smile. Cash would have loved this.
There’s Eva and some army guys from Luc and Cash’s old unit. There’s Earl and a few folks who got to know Cash during the hurricane party, including Lauren and he
r little sister, Kelsey. There’s Scarlet and Auntie June. And might I say that Aunt Bea can rock a flannel? She’s paired a pink-and-gray shirt with black jeans, ankle boots, and a slim belt. What looks casual and sloppy on other people, she manages to make look couture.
I love her to pieces for joining in. Especially since I know she’s used to vintage Gucci and custom Chanel.
I wait a few minutes for everyone to arrive, and then I call the crowd to order. After thanking everyone for coming, I start pouring shots of Gentleman Jack and tell folks how this memorial will work.
“Cash wasn’t one for dirges and sober mourning. He was more about dirty jokes and living life to the fullest. So I invite anyone who wants to say a word about him, or tell a story about him, to do so. Today isn’t about grieving his death. It’s about celebrating his life. And the only rule is, after you get done saying your word or telling your story, you have to come to the bar and take a shot.”
There’s some laughter from the crowd and some nods of appreciation. Not surprisingly, it’s the army guys who line up first to talk about Cash. I stay behind the bar and cry as one by one they talk about how brave he was, how he saved each of them at one time or another, and then they come by, toss back a shot, and slam the empty glass upside down on the bar.
The last of his former teammates steps in front of the stage. He’s big and bulky, with a shocking amount of flaming-red hair. When he talks, his Carolina accent is thick.
“Everyone’s already said what an amazin’ soldier Cash was, despite his bad habit of questionin’ orders.” He looks at Luc, who smiles and shakes his head. “I’m here to say that he came by both things, the soldiering and the bein’ a pain in the ass, naturally. See, I was lucky enough to go through basic with Cash, and I was there the day he mouthed off to our drill sergeant. Ol’ Sergeant Wiley knew by then that the usual punishments didn’t work on Cash. So he went to the broom closet and came out with a long-handled broom. He handed it to Cash and told him to go sweep all the rain off the sidewalk in front of our barracks. But here’s the funny part. It was comin’ down cats and dogs.”
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 23
