Chapter Fifteen
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Cash
Sometimes the past is like that wholeobjects in mirror are closer than they appearthing. The trick to forgetting is simply not to look.
That’s pretty much how I’ve spent the last ten years. Studiouslynotlooking. But today I’m forcing myself to take a peek. Today is all about remembering.
When Luc glances my way, I gather my courage and form it into a smile. He doesn’t smile back. Instead he glares at me and wipes the sweat from his brow. “You’re about as useful as an ejection seat on a helicopter,” he grumbles.
He’s ditched his sports coat, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and is using a spade to dig at the base of the Singing Oak, while I sit on a bench and watch Maggie hurl a tennis ball for her butt-ugly, three-legged dog.
The sprawling branches of the tree provide welcome shade from the power of the setting sun, and the ripples along the top of the lake flash silver in the light. An artist painted a bunch of wind chimes black and strung them in the tree’s branches. Their symphony is eerie, if you ask me. Less asingingoak and more amoaningoak.
“You sure this is the spot?” Luc points to the base of the tree.
“I buried it. I should know,” I assure him.
“Then why aren’t you over here helping me dig?”
“And deny you the satisfaction of a job well done? What sort of friend would I be?”
He mumbles something unkind about the matrimonial state of my parents at the moment of my birth before he gets back to work using the spade.
Shading my eyes, I watch Yard scramble after the tennis ball, catch it on a bounce, and run back to Maggie, tail whipping side to side in canine ecstasy. She scratches behind his ears, telling him what a good boy he is, before rearing back and sending the ball flying again.
While we were at her house, she exchanged her dress for a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt—apparently, that’s her standard wardrobe for working at the bar. And while both of her cats ignored me in typical cat fashion, they couldn’t stop rubbing themselves against Luc’s calves.
I accused him of hiding catnip in his socks.
He claimed they can sense which of us is a fan ofThe Big Bang Theory.
Maggie turns to me and her eyes outshine the sky behind her. When she gifts me with a radiant smile, it hits me like a punch in the heart. I manage a wave and wait until Yard snags her attention before unscrewing the cap on my flask and letting a long stream of Gentleman Jack slide down my throat.
This afternoon nearly killed me. By the time we left Miss Bea’s house, I thought my head might explode.Boom!Gray matter and blood oozing from my ears. Eyes x-ed out like some sort of cartoon character.
Would like to blame my condition solely on the problem with my brain and the damned din of fifty high-pitched female voices. But neither of those things can explain why my hands shook or why beads of sweat rolled down my back in a fully air-conditioned ballroom.
Withdrawal symptoms.
That I’m feeling much better after polishing off half the contents of my flask is proof positive.
In case you’re wondering, the answer isno. I’m not surprised. Nobody can drink like I do without developing a problem. But this is the first time I’ve had to stare the truth in the face.
Wish the pain meds worked. I truly do. After all I’ve been through, no one would look twice if I popped a pill or two. But the prescriptions are complete and total dick cheese. They might take the edge off, but they also take me out of commission.
Can’t afford to be taken out of commission. I have too many things to do and not enough time to do them.
“I swear.” Maggie plops down beside me, bringing her unique aroma of wildflowers with her. Even now, all these years later, when I kiss a woman, I long for that smell. “That dog would chase a ball until he collapsed from exhaustion.” She rotates her shoulder and smiles affectionately at Yard, who has gone to investigate the lake’s edge. Then she squints at Luc laboring under the tree. “Mind telling me what he’s up to?”
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see in a—”
I’m cut off by the sound of Yard yelping. He’s gotten too close to one of the lake ducks, and now the water fowl is out of the water, wings flapping, bill quacking. Poor Yard’s ears are pinned back against his head and he yelps in pain when the duck goes airborne and bites him on the ass.
“Shoo! Shoo!” Maggie is up and running toward Yard. A momma off to save her furbaby.
The duck, sensing it’s met its match in the crazy lady with the waving arms and the streaming black hair, changes directions and flaps back to the lake. It lands in that amazing way of its species, skiing for a few seconds on webbed feet before gracefully sliding into the water.
