Chapter Sixteen
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Maggie
Chris Rose, a beloved writer forTheTimes-Picayune, once said, “You can live in any city in America, but New Orleans is the only city that lives in you.”
Amen, brother.
It’s a typical Friday night in the Vieux Carré.
The bar is hopping with locals and tourists alike. Louis Armstrong—known here by the nickname Satchmo, although I’ve never thought to find out why—is playing on the jukebox. And like I said it would, the weather finally broke. We have the windows and doors thrown open to catch the cool evening breeze, and the smell of beer, whiskey, and good times hangs in the air.
This is my kind of night. My kind of crowd. And I’d be pleased as punch, except for one small thing…
It’s been five days since I’ve seen Luc or Cash.
What the actual heck? I mean, after that whole thing with the time capsule—and how amazing was that, by the way?—I thought for sure I’d be hearing from them. But once again…out of sight, out of mind.
Not that it’s been radio silence like last week. Luc’s texted me three times to tell me how they’re coming along with Cash’s house and once about an awesome new song he heard on the radio—a love of music has always been something we share. Although, as “Pocketful of Sunshine” attests, our tastes don’t always align. But Cash? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Why hasn’t he stopped by Bon Temps Rouler? Why hasn’t he called or texted? How am I supposed to figure out what happened and what he wants from me now if I never see him?
My cell buzzes as I pop the top on an Abita. After sliding the beer to Earl, I pull my phone from my pocket and smile at the name on the screen. Well, speak of the devil. Or…one of the devils, at least.
Luc: Working tonight?
Me: Here until closing.
Luc: There room at the bar for 2 more?
My heart starts pounding.
Me: I’ll make room.
Luc: Be there in 10 mins.
When I click off the phone, Earl leans over to Jean-Pierre, who’s doing me ahugefavor by filling in for the band that was supposed to play tonight. They ended up canceling at the last minute. Something about bad shrimp and not enough toilets in all of Louisiana to contain what they’re producing.
“See that there smile?” Earl points the neck of his beer at me. “She’s taken to wearing it when one of these ghosts from her past comes up in conversation.”
I try to wipe the grin from my face but can’t quite manage it.
“Me? I recognize it well,” Jean-Pierre says. “She’s been alternately grinnin’ like a gopher in soft dirt and lookin’ sad enough to bring a tear to a glass eye ever since dem boys came back to town.”
“It’s enough to make you wonder, ain’t it?” Earl muses.
“Wonder what?” Jean-Pierre asks.
“Which one of ’em she’s getting busy with.” Earl takes a swig of his beer and eyes me consideringly. “My money’s on both.”
“Oh hush.” Heat flies to my cheeks. “I’m not getting busy with either of them. And who still uses the phrasegetting busyanyway?”
“Well, if you ain’t riding either of their baloney ponies, then what’s so great about them?” Earl demands.
“There are more important things in life than sex, Earl. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”
“Bah.” He waves a hand. “Folks who claim there are more important things than sex are the ones who ain’t getting any.”
