Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3

by Julie Ann Walker

  I look to Luc to see if he remembers this and find his chest quaking with suppressed laughter. Yeah, he remembers. And it’s so good to see something other than sadness in him.

  “Cash swept and swept,” the man continues. “He was out there all damn day long until the rain finally let up around chow time that night. When he came in, lookin’ like a drowned rat, barely able to lift his arms, I saw Ol’ Sergeant Wiley smilin’. Not in a mean way, but in an affectionate way. He liked Cash. And far as I could figure, he didn’t like anyone. But that’s my point. No matter how mad Cash could get you, and he could get you plenty mad, you couldn’t help but love him. And I’m here to tell ya my life is better for havin’ known him.”

  Auntie June tells a story about the time Cash was helping her in the garden and got stung on the lip by a bee. “His mouth swelled up until he looked like Angelina Jolie, but that didn’t stop him from sticking with me until the bitter end. I always thought he was a good boy, and the good Lord knows he grew into a good man. I’ll never understand why He saw fit to take Cash so young. Especially because the world’s a little smaller, a little darker without him.”

  A few others get up—Helene, Vee, even Aunt Bea. Then, when it looks like everyone’s said what they came to say, Luc makes his way to the stage. He reads a poem he wrote about Cash. About their friendship. Their brotherhood. About his love and his loss.

  I’ve kept it together pretty good through it all, but Luc’s poem strikes at the heart of me. By the time he’s finished and thrown back his shot, there’s not a dry eye in the room. But I’m definitely the worst of the lot. I’m blubbering like a baby.

  I labored for hours yesterday and this morning over what I would say about Cash, writing speech after speech and tossing all of them away. But finally, about two hours ago, the words came to me, and I scribbled them down on a piece of paper that I shoved in my pocket.

  I should reach for it now. It’s my turn to talk.

  But I can’t.

  It hurts too much.

  Instead, I lift a shot and, through my tears, say, “I loved him. It’s as easy and as hard as that. Here’s to Cash.” Then I toss the whiskey to the back of my throat, the burn of the liquor matching the burn of my tears.

  Jean-Pierre cues up the playlist, and Coldplay issues through the speakers, singing “Viva La Vida.” Literally translated, it means the life lives, and that seems right.

  Cash may be gone. But his life lives within each of us.

  “Bar and buffet are open!” Jean-Pierre calls, taking over hosting duties. He can see I’m in no shape. The sounds of chair legs scraping against the floor and a dozen conversations immediately fill the room.

  I manage a watery, “Thank you,” to Jean-Pierre and then look for Luc. He’s surrounded by his army buddies up by the stage, but his eyes meet mine in an instant.

  He has this sixth sense when it comes to me. He always knows when I’m watching him.

  I motion that I’m going to head out back for a while. Sometimes a little peace and quiet is just what the doctor ordered.

  You want me to come? his eyes ask.

  No. I shake my head.

  I love you, he mouths.

  Closing my eyes and placing a hand over my heart, I let those words sink in. Sink past the hurt and the grief to the part of me that isn’t so tender and sore. To the part of me that’s his, only his. Then I open my eyes, smile tremulously, and mouth, I love you too.

  Grabbing Yard’s leash off the hook, I clip it to his collar and quietly sneak out the back.

  Overhead, the sky is a clear, vibrant blue. Out on the river, a tugboat pulling a barge blasts its sad-sounding horn. And the buskers are playing on Royal Street.

  Death changes everything. And nothing at all.

  The door opens behind me, and a bottle of water appears at my elbow. “I thought you might be thirsty. Crying is so dehydrating.”

  “Thank you.” I smile at Vee, who comes to stand beside me.

  “It’s a wonderful memorial service, Magpie. Cash would’ve loved it. Especially the flannel.”

  I grunt. “That man had zero fashion sense.”

  “One of his many charms.”

  I lift the bottle of water in cheers. “Hear, hear.”

  Somewhere nearby, a window is open and bluegrass music drifts over the sill, falling down around us in the twang of a banjo and the cry of a fiddle. The song is “Little Maggie,” and Vee grins. “Coincidence?” she asks.

  I lift a shoulder. “Who knows? I’ve learned to stop questioning if anything is fate or destiny or kismet, or if it’s all simply happenstance.”

  “Sick of the obscurity of it all?”

  “More like I’m sick of knowing I have zero control over any of it.”

  “Mmm.” She falls quiet to listen to the song. When it’s over, she starts digging in her purse and comes out with two white envelopes and passes them to me.

  My name is printed across the face of one in Cash’s handwriting. When I shuffle the envelopes, I see the second has Luc’s name on it.

  “You?” I blink at her in astonishment. “Cash gave them to you?”

  Her lips twist. “There near the end, he needed help with some things. And since he didn’t want you and Luc to know how bad he was, he came to me.”

  I frown. “But how did you know? How did—” I stop midsentence. “It was the New Year’s Eve party, wasn’t it?”

  “When I laid into him for parading Scarlet around, he told me. I think…” She swallows and stares in the direction of the river. “I think his pride got the better of him for a split second. I think he couldn’t take me thinking he was a lout when his motives were something else entirely.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s a question, but it comes out as an accusation.

  Yard, hearing the anguish in my voice, sits at my feet and whines up at me. I pat his head to reassure him I’m okay…even though I’m not. Not by a long shot.

  Vee knew? All this time? And she never said anything?

  It feels like a betrayal.

  “He made me promise, Maggie.” Her tone pleads for me to understand. “He said he had a plan to make sure you and Luc would be okay after he was gone, but it wouldn’t work if I told you. He swore that telling you would screw everything up.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “What choice did I have? The man was dying. That’s maybe the most personal thing ever. It wasn’t my place to out him.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Vee.”

  “I hated keeping it from you. I swear I did. But what could I do? I gave my word.”

  Our parents drilled into us that our word is our bond. Then Auntie June and Aunt Bea took over the job after our folks were gone. Besides gentility and politeness, we Southerners pride ourselves on keeping our promises.

  Any and all bitterness drains from me like I’m full of holes, a human sieve. “He put you in a terrible position.”

  “Yeah, but…” She lifts her hands. “I brought it on myself by confronting him.”

  Tucking the envelopes under my arm, I take her hand. “I’m glad he had you to confess to. I’m glad he had someone he could depend on.”

  Her expression is a little sad, a little wistful. “He really did turn out to be a good guy, didn’t he?”

  “He was always a good guy, Vee. He just wasn’t a perfect guy.”

  The door creaks on its hinges when it opens behind us. I know it’s Luc before he says anything. Anytime he gets within three feet of me, the baby hair all over my body reaches for him. Like I’m metal and he’s a magnet.

  “Everything okay out here, ladies?” he asks.

  “Our girl’s been running all over hell’s half acre getting ready for this memorial service,” Vee says. “I think she just needed a breather.”

  Luc squeezes my shoulder and plants a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “You reckon it’s possible to breathe and kiss at the same time?”

  Vee chuckles. “I think I’m going to like hav
ing you for a brother-in-law. Y’all take your time out here.” She nods to the letters still tucked under my arm. “I’ll bring Yard in and make sure no one but Auntie June feeds him scraps under the table.”

  Before she goes, I pull her in for a hug. “Thank you, Vee,” I whisper in her ear. “For everything.”

  “You’re welcome.” She pats my back and then leads Yard inside the bar.

  After she’s gone, Luc cocks his head at me. Then his gaze drops to the envelopes, and the blood drains from his face. He swings toward the back door, his expression surprised. “He gave the letters to Violet? You gotta be kidding me.”

  “It’s a long story.” I hand him the envelope with his name on it. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  His throat works over a swallow as he stares down at the letter. “Is it crazy that part of me wants to rip this open and read it as quickly as I can, and another part of me never wants to set eyes on it?”

  “You’re not crazy at all.” Tears prick behind my eyes for what seems like the millionth time today. “I feel the same way. I want to read it. I want to hear his voice in my head. But I don’t want to read it. I don’t want this to be the last time I hear his voice in my head.”

  “What’d’ya say we open ’em at the same time? Do it together?”

  “I say that sounds like the right way to do just about everything.”

  That makes him smile. “On the count of three?”

  I nod. “One.”

  “Two,” he adds as my heart starts pounding.

  “Three,” we say together, tearing into our respective envelopes.

  After we each remove a single page, Luc takes my hand in his. Together, we read Cassius Clay Armstrong’s final words to us…

  Chapter Ninety-two

  ______________________________________

  Dear Maggie,

  You know me. I’m bad at drawn-out farewells. Getting the hell out of Dodge, that’s what I’m good at.

  Which is why I didn’t tell you about the tumor. I couldn’t stand the thought of a long goodbye, of tears and reminiscences and hours spent repainting the past, repainting ME, in softer, fuzzier colors so that you could look back on everything and only see the airiness and sweetness of it all.

  The flaws I had in life are the flaws I have in death. I’m equal parts good and bad, and I don’t want you to forget that. I don’t want you to forget ME. But instead, remember me exactly as I am.

  That said, I couldn’t leave you again without saying all the things that are in my head and in my heart. But I want to warn you right now, I’m not much of a letter writer. I don’t have Luc’s gift for putting pen to paper—or yours, for that matter. So I hope you’ll forgive me if I ramble a bit.

  I’m sitting down to write this twelve years, four months, and six days after the moment I first saw you. And I need to tell you how grateful I’ve been to you for letting me love you and for loving me in return. For giving me the opportunity to witness myself and everything around me through your eyes. You’ve always been able to see the beauty and the mystery in the world, so it’s been an amazing view.

  I know I interfered with what you and Luc had going back in high school. I came in like a hurricane, blowing apart the foundation of your young love before its house could be built.

  But I can’t be sorry. You had something I desperately needed. Something sweet and clean and bright. And I’m prideful enough to think I had what you needed too. Something different and daring and maybe even a little bit dark.

  Perhaps we were fated to be exactly as we were then and as we are now. Two people who grew in love and laughter and friendship. Two people who helped each other stand up, be brave, and embrace all the wonder and fascination this life has to offer.

  Please forgive me for any hurt or rejection you’ve felt since I came back. My only excuse is that I knew my time was short, and I wanted you to realize how you truly felt about Luc, how you’ve ALWAYS felt about him, while I was alive. While you and I were still an option. Not for your sake. Or for mine. But for HIS. So he’d never have to wonder if he was your second choice. Especially since you and I both know he’s the best of all three of us.

  His love for you is all that mine could never be. Selfless. Unrestrained. And more importantly, RIGHT.

  I wish I could be there to see the two of you get married. To watch you become parents. To laugh with you in your old age. But life has a rhythm and it’s unforgiving. There’s a time for living and a time for dying, and none of us gets to choose our own beat.

  Luckily, death has this amazing way of showing you what really matters. I’ve realized that what really matters to me isn’t the time I’m going to miss out on but the time I had. It isn’t what I got but what I gave. And it isn’t what I’m taking with me, but what I’m leaving behind.

  If the measure of a man’s life is the love he’s given and the love he’s received, then… Oh, Maggie, my time here on earth has been amazing. And I take comfort in knowing that even though life doesn’t go on forever, love does.

  Love is stronger than death.

  Don’t waste any time mourning for me. Let go of what was, embrace what is, and fill your heart with all that will be.

  Get busy building your life with Luc. Hold each other close. Support each other through every triumph and trial. Keep each other safe. But, most importantly, love each other. And know that I’ll always love you, my sparkly, shiny girl.

  Cash

  Chapter Ninety-three

  ______________________________________

  Dear Luc,

  This isn’t a goodbye letter. It’s a thank-you letter.

  Thank you for showing me what it means to be a true and loyal friend. What it means to be an upstanding man. What it means to live a life that’s good.

  For a long time, I thought I didn’t have a role model. We both know Rick never fit that bill. But dying has this weird habit of making a person look back over his life. As I look back over mine, I realize everything in me that is thoughtful and kind and wise, I learned from you.

  YOU have shown me what it is to be humble and human, to be courageous and caring all at the same time. YOU have been my mentor, my moral compass, the ideal to which I’ve aspired.

  I say “aspired” since I don’t think even if I lived to be a hundred years old, I could ever match your grace or selflessness. Even now, I find myself wanting so much to matter. To be important. To be remembered.

  The Creole cottage isn’t just my labor of love. It isn’t just because I wanted to make a home for you and Maggie to share. It’s also my selfish attempt to remain a part of your lives.

  Neither of us believes in ghosts. And even if I discover that’s an option, don’t worry, I won’t come back to haunt you. But every morning when you wake up, I want to be there in the ceiling medallion I helped plaster, in the bathroom doorframe that took us a whole afternoon to get level, and in the shiplap on the far wall in the master bedroom that we argued about for two weeks.

  When you put your firstborn to bed at night in the front room, I want to be there in the varnish on the hardwood floors, in the paint on the cornices in the corners, and in the moonlight that streams in through the windows we hung together on a warm winter afternoon with the sun shining down on our heads.

  For every Christmas, every birthday, every humble Waistband Monday where all you and Maggie do is Netflix and chill, I want to be there. Through it all. Through the years.

  And speaking of our sweet Southern girl…

  Thank you for letting me borrow her from you for a while. Yes, I realize she was only on loan. From the beginning, she was meant to be yours.

  I’ve always known it.

  You’ve always known it.

  Deep down, she’s always known it too.

  Back when we were kids, I was the easier option. The one that promised fun for now, but not forever. Which I think is what she needed at the time. Afterward, she held on to the fairy tale of high school sweethearts because, as we b
oth know, she’s stubborn and fanciful in equal measure.

  Of course, she’s also a woman who knows her own mind and who isn’t afraid to follow her heart. So it’s no surprise it didn’t take long after we came back for her to realize what should have been all along. While she will always be the love of my life, I have never been the love of hers.

  YOU have.

  This dying business has taught me there’s no stopping what life wants. Or what love wants. One way or another, things end up as they should.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the tumor. But I’m a prideful man, despite your shining example to the contrary. I didn’t want to be pitied for things I couldn’t control or pardoned for things I could.

  Do you suppose there’s dignity in thinking some pain can’t be shared, that it must be suffered alone? Or is that simply my ego talking?

  Anyway, it’s the only secret I ever kept from you. Please forgive me.

  Forgive me and know that I feel like my life only truly started after you and Maggie entered it. And even though I’m leaving earlier than I’d like, it’s been a wonderful life. A full life.

  The love and friendship you and Maggie have given me is the sum of everything I ever did, all I ever felt, and who I ever was. The two of you have given consequence to my life. And for that, I thank you.

  Cash

  Chapter Ninety-four

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Dr. Seuss said, Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.

  Today we’re giving Cash the final farewell he asked for, and it seems fitting that the day dawned sunny and bright. The kind of day that doesn’t mourn death, but celebrates life. The kind of day that doesn’t cry because it’s over, but smiles because it happened.

  As I stand at the edge of the bayou, watching Luc arrange more kindling and branches over the top of Cash’s simple unvarnished pine casket, I listen to the sounds of life around me. The slurp of the mud. The snap of a twig as a swamp animal goes in search of food. A hundred yards away, bubbles rise to the surface of the tea-colored water, and I wonder if it’s swamp gas or the breath of a submerged alligator.