Chapter Twenty-nine
______________________________________
Maggie
Let go of what was. Accept what is. And have hope for what can be.
I’ve let go of Cash. Or…at least I’ve let go of the idea I’ve been desperately clinging to since the day he came back. The idea that we might be able to pick up where we left off.
It took some time—and the sage wisdom of Eva and Jean-Pierre mixed with a bottle of apple wine—but I finally opened my eyes and read the signs that have been in front of me all along. Like how Cash has never explained himself—and I know, I haven’t come out and asked, but if he felt for me now what he felt for me back then, I wouldn’t have to ask. He’d want to resolve the issue so we could put it behind us and move on. Like how he’s never tried to hold my hand or steal a kiss. Like how he’s never once said anything about wanting more than friendship.
I’ve accepted that I’ve been selfish, focusing on whatIwant fromhiminstead of whatheneeds fromme, which is compassion, understanding, and forgiveness. I’ve accepted that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. If friendship is what he wants, then friendship is what he’ll get. And to prove it, I spent the last two days googling the best neurosurgeons in the country, because obviously the local guys are complete quacks.
I mean, really. Who thinks alcohol is an appropriate pain reliever?
No one. That’s who.
I homed in on the surgeon who seemed to be the most respected in the field, and sent him an email explaining Cash’s condition, begging him to take a look at Cash’s medical records and scans. I made sure to include that I would pay for the expertise.
Money talks, right?
Thanks to the extra I’ve been socking away into my retirement fund, I have some greenbacks to spare. Not much, but hopefully it’ll be enough. And what are friends for if not to do everything in their power to help each other out?
And finally, I have hope for what can be, a future of camaraderie and companionship, of laughter and love—even if it’s adifferentkind of love than the one I’d hoped for.
That’s right. Look at me! Being all adult and stuff!
I turn down the dirt road leading to Luc’s swamp house in my hybrid SUV—I’m one ofthosepeople. When you live close to the ocean like I do, you get to see climate change firsthand.
Lowering the windows, I breathe in the thick swamp air. It plays with the boughs of the cypress trees, allowing brief glimpses of the fat bayou moon.
There’s something about the dark water on either side of the road. Something about the flash of eyes in the night and the long, lonely howl of a coyote in the distance. The bayou is alive and constantly whispering. For those who know how to listen, those like Luc, it shares its soul.
Pulling up to the back of his house, I’m reminded of all the long, hot hours we spent here as kids, laughing and singing, dancing and dreaming. Pretending we were more grown up than we actually were.
I’m relieved to see Smurf is parked next to the short pier that extends from the bank to the house’s back door. I didn’t think to text before coming. I guess I always picture Luc running straight home after working on Cash’s house—he loves the swamp so much. My relief is short-lived, however, when it occurs to me that just because he’s home doesn’t mean he’s alone.
Sally Renee could be here.
I don’t try to identify the emotion that shoots through me. Instead, I grab the cocktail napkin in its square shadow box frame and the binder full of letters and exit the vehicle.
If she’s here, she’s here. I came to deliver the letters and the napkin, and by God that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
After jogging around to the passenger side, I’m greeted by an exuberant bark. I brought Yard with me because the silly muttlovesto go on car rides, and he doesn’t get the opportunity very often. There’s no need to drive in the French Quarter. Everything is within walking distance.
“Luc!” I call as I grab Yard’s leash, holding on tight when he hops to the ground. I’d never forgive myself if he ran off to get eaten by an alligator or trampled by a wild boar.
Our arrival has scared a raccoon out of a tree. The masked bandit scampers across the clearing before disappearing into some underbrush. Yard goes crazy, spinning in circles on the end of his leash and barking his fool head off.
“Shush,” I scold him, reeling him in so we can march down the short pier toward Luc’s back door. I knock, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer. If he was home, he’d have come running when I hollered his name.
Retracing my steps, I step off the pier and head toward the water, being careful not to get too close. Alligators can torpedo out of the swamp and snatch a person in their ironlike jaws faster than green grass shoots through a goose. Craning my head, I squint against the dark and search for Luc’s pirogue, the long, narrow canoe he fashioned from a single tree trunk.
MIA. Which means he’s probably out night fishing. Or maybe he poled over to visit his father’s mausoleum, which sits on a tiny island at the edge of the property.
“Son of a biscuit,” I curse, not looking forward to sitting in the car and waiting for him to return home. The swamp is always a magical, mystical place. But at night, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s full of black magic and otherworldly creatures out to snack on my blood.
“Let’s see if the back door is open.”
