Chapter Thirteen
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Maggie
Whoever said time flies wasn’t missing someone.
It’s been five days since I’ve seen Cash or Luc, and every intervening minute has dragged by like it’s been weighed down by an anchor.
Isn’t that crazy? After spending only one day together, I feel like they’re a part of me again. I find myself turning around to tell them about that funny thing that happened, or that weird patron who came into my bar dressed in nothing but yards of red cellophane. And like they’re a missing arm or leg, I notice that they’re gone.
I’m not suffering from phantom limb syndrome, but phantomfriendsyndrome.
That’s partly my fault, I suppose. I could’ve called Luc or gone to see Cash. But I just couldn’t make myself make the first move. And now, given the five days of radio silence, I’m second-guessing inviting them to the tea. Especially since I didn’t get the chance to warn them what they’d be in for.
Vee was right. The auntswillbe happy to see them again. But maybe this wasn’t the best way to make that happen.
Nervously, I pace the length of the veranda spanning the front of my aunt’s Garden District mansion. The architecture of her home is Greek Revival-style with an Italianate bay that was added on after the initial construction. It’s painted bright white with wrought-iron details and six big columns that extend the height of its towering three stories. In the mid-1800s, it was built to impress by a cotton magnate.
To this day, it still does exactly that.Impress.
I’m lucky I got to finish growing up here after my parents died. But honestly? This place has never felt like home. It’s too big. Too fancy.I’m afraid to touch the antiques. And every time it rains, I leave my shoes by the front door, unable to bear the thought of tracking water onto one of the heirloom rugs.
“For heaven’s sake, Magnolia,” Aunt Bea says from the doorway. “Stop spinning in circles and panting like an overexcited puppy. Come inside before the guests start arriving.”
“Oh, leave her alone.” Auntie June comes to stand beside me. “It’s not every day a woman gets a second chance at her first love.”
Those words have a weight the size of a crosstown bus landing on my chest.
Isthis a second chance?
All this time, I thought I was holding on to Cash because the mystery of his sudden departure made it impossible to let him go. Like Sherlock Holmes with a juicy clue, I couldn’t rest until the case was closed. But maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe the Fates knew he would come back into my life. Maybe, in the end, our destinies have always been intertwined.
Didn’t Madame LaRouche say as much?
Auntie June’s sunny smile wrinkles her face like parchment paper. The colorful print of her sundress—which she probably purchased off the rack at Walmart—picks up the rosy hue of her cheeks and the faded blue in her eyes. By contrast, Aunt Bea is dressed in a gray designer suit—black and gray are her go-to colors—and the double strand of pearls around her neck matches the icy shade of her perfect, salon-styled hair.
Whereas Auntie June is soft and round and a bit disheveled, Aunt Bea is as skinny as a fence post and nipped and tucked to perfection. Auntie June prefers to spend her days puttering around the garden or baking mouthwatering delights in the kitchen. Aunt Bea likes her bridge club and her country club and chairing the boards of too many charities to count.
But if you’re imagining Aunt Bea is cold and unfeeling, think again. She didn’t hesitate to take in Auntie June after June’s husband, a fella known as “Good Time” Jack Goudeau, gambled away their life savings before up and having himself a heart attack. Neither did she hesitate to take in me and my sister after our parents died.
“You always were a romantic,” she accuses Auntie June before turning back into the house, softly closing the door behind her.
“She says that like it’s a bad thing.” Auntie June blinks in mock confusion.
I laugh and squeeze her shoulder before I start pacing again.
“Come here, honey.” She slips an arm around my waist and steers me toward the porch swing. “Come sit with me. All that back and forth is making me nervous as a woodshed waiter.”
We sit and set the swing rocking. It’s a slow, placid glide, perfect for the slow, placid pace of life Auntie June prefers. After a while, my knotted nerves begin to loosen.
“It’s still hot as Hades,” she complains, fanning an aged hand in front of her face. The air around us is sticky despite the gently paddling ceiling fan blades overhead.
“The weather should break any day now,” I assure her, breathing in deep the smells of rosinweed and autumn sage.
“The good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” she agrees.
I’ve never understood that particular colloquialism. Although, the sentiment isn’t lost on me.
