“What is with everyone today?” I glance around the bar. “Did everyone miss the memo that modern-day women don’t need a man to be complete? I’m perfectly fine all by my lonesome, thank you very much. Also, in case no one’s told you, the phraselight in his loafersis offensive.”
“Ah, hell.” Earl huffs. “I don’t mean nothing by it. This is New Orleans.”
To punctuate his point, he pronounces it New Or-leenz instead of the correct New Or-linz—and just FYI, the quickest way to prove you’re not from around here is to pronounce it N’Awlins. Don’t knowwhocame up with that one, but it wasn’t anyone from the 504.
“Everybody and everything is welcome here,” Earl adds. “Besides, I’m seventy-six years old. You can’t expect me to keep up with all this PC nonsense.”
“Is it nonsense to be mindful of the feelings of those who are different than you?”
“Bah!” His beer hits the bar with athunk. “You’re trying to change the subject. Now tell me about these ghosts from your past. Ghosts, as in plural?” He wiggles his wiry white eyebrows. “Now thatisinteresting.”
“You’re a lecherous old fart.” I shake my head affectionately. “Watch your dog races and mind your own beeswax.”
“You’re no fun,” he accuses with a frown that makes his mustache droop.
“So you always say.” I move to the other end of the bar where the two tourists have come to deposit their empties. “Another round, ladies?” I ask.
“No.” The redhead shakes her head. “We want to get some dinner. Know someplace good that’s close?”
“Good?” Earl calls. “You’re in Creole country. Everything we make is good, including the men!” He offers the women a salacious wink. “Come sit by me and let me reconnoiter what you’re in the mood for.”
“They’re young enough to be your granddaughters!” I yell at Earl.
“Ain’t anybody ever tell you older men make beautiful lovers?” he hollers back.
“You got that from a country song! And it was about olderwomen!”
He ignores me and pulls out the barstool next to him as enticement. “Come on, ladies.” He pats the seat. “Give old Earl a chance.”
When the leggy blonde looks at me, I roll my eyes. “He’s harmless. Truly. And hedoesknow all the best places to eat.”
Earl blows me a kiss as the duo heads his way. When they grab the barstools on either side of him, he’s in heaven, his dog race long forgotten since he likes nothing better than to spin yarns to enthrall the tourists.
He orders a round of rye shots for his new friends. After I pour them, movement by the front door catches my eye. My heart, proving itself a total cliché, leaps when I see Luc standing there.
Lord have mercy, the years have been good to him. He’s pulled a total Neville Longbottom.
Not that I ever thought he was ugly. He’s always had the thickest, shiniest mink-brown hair and eyes so warm and smooth they remind me of good whiskey. Then there are those dimples…
But back in high school, he still had a coltishness to him. All six-plus feet of him had been big-boned and lanky. And he suffered from acne. Not a terrible case, mind you. But, you know,there. And he slouched all the time. I used to think it was because he wanted to make himself a smaller target so he could escape the barbs the other kids hurled his way.
But look at him now…
No more coltishness. He’s strapped with the kind of muscles that make panties hit the floor. The acne is long gone. Now the only thing covering his square jaw is a light dusting of dark beard stubble. No more slouch either. The army probably rid him of that in two days.
When he starts my way, every female head in the room turns to watch him go by.
He takes a seat atop a barstool, and for a couple of minutes, we simply look at each other. Letting our hungry eyes take in all the changes adulthood has wrought. My heart missed Cash, but my Louisiana soul missed Luc. I didn’t realize how much until right this minute.
Most men would feel the need to fill the silence with words, but not Luc. Maybe it’s his raising out in the swamps with nothing but the gators and the crawdads to keep him company. Or maybe it’s simply him. A pillar of quiet strength and the ability to say it all without ever saying a thing.
Tears prick behind my eyes as I reach across the bar to grab his hand. I squeeze it tightly. “I’ve missed you something crazy,” I admit.
“Missed you too, Maggie May.” His throat sounds scratchy, and he tugs on his ear. It’s a familiar gesture.
I guess some things haven’t changed.
“Charlie!” I call. “Mind the bar for a bit, will you? This here’s Lucien Dubois. I haven’t seen him in ten years, and we have some catching up to do.”
