Chapter Twenty-four
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Maggie
Mark Twain once said, “New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.”
He was right. Doesn’t matter if you’re talking about the highbrow fare served at the fancy-dancy Michelin-starred restaurants or the stick-to-your-bones food cooked up in the holes in the wall like here at Port of Call, your taste buds are going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven.
The three of us are sitting at the bar, me in the middle. The small restaurant on Esplanade Avenue is one of those Big Easy institutions that makes sense because it doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s a burger joint, but it’s decked out like a seafood restaurant with a ship’s wheel on the wall, rigging strung across the ceiling, and pictures of ocean views and tropical sunsets hanging around.
You can get a burger—the best in town—but don’t you dare order french fries, or you might get punched in the face. Loaded baked potatoes are served here. Period. End of story. And instead of beer and soda, Port of Call is known for its fruity, tropical drinks. They’re the only things about the place that seem to match the name and decor.
My favorite cocktail is called Neptune’s Monsoon, which the menu claims is an old recipe pirates requested before being made to walk the plank. I assume the scallywags asked for it because of its strength. One is all I need to go numb.
I tell myself I’ll just drink half.
Being around Cash has made me hyperaware of my alcohol intake. And speaking of Cash, he’s wearing a frown as crooked as a crow’s foot.
“He’s still sulking,” I whisper to Luc, eyeing Cash warily.
“I don’t sulk,” Cash insists. “I brood.” When I lift an eyebrow, he adds, “That’s how strong, manly men sulk.”
I think of the pain he struggles with on a daily basis and that skull fragment he left at the chapel. Covertly, I glance at the scar above his temple, wanting to touch it, soothe it, soothehim. But I don’t dare.
Instead, I tell him adamantly, “Things are going to get better. Iknowthey are. After we talk with your doctor tomorrow, we’ll figure out how we can—”
“I’m not brooding about my dumb brain,” he interrupts. “I’m brooding about being twenty-eight years old and spending all my time tearing down walls and pissing in a toilet that I have to jiggle the handle on every time I flush, or the damn thing runs all day and night. I’m brooding about sleeping on a mattress on the floor like some flophouse junkie. I’m brooding about missing out on all the good things in life. But then I think to myself, ‘No. Youwantedthis house. Youwantedto take on this project. Suck it up, buttercup.’”
“You say twenty-eight like it’s ancient.” I laugh. “It’syoung.Too young to be having a midlife crisis.”
“Is that what this is?”
I nudge him with my elbow. “You have all the time in the world.” I don’t add,Or at least youwillif you lay off the hooch.
“Maybe.” He shrugs again. For a while, he’s quiet. Then he blurts, “I want to up our Sunday brunches from once a month to twice a month. Same for the excursions.”
“I’m game.” I nod. More time together will mean more opportunities for us to have that conversation we’ve been avoiding—or, rather, the oneI’vebeen avoiding. “Luc? How about you?”
He’s watching Cash through narrowed eyes. It makes me wonder if I’m missing something. Some subtext beneath Cash’s words.
“Fine by me,” he finally says. “I’m even up for more today. What time you gotta be to work tonight, Maggie May?”
“Not till seven.”
“So after we eat, let’s go break the law and sneak into Jazzland.”
For the first time all day, Cash smiles. That’s all the impetus I need to agree to the plan.
“Let me text Jean-Pierre so he can take Yard out.” I take my cell from my pocket to shoot off the text.
Jean-Pierre responds with a winky face blowing a heart kiss. Then our cheeseburgers arrive, and the smells of fried meat, cheddar cheese, and steaming baked potatoes fill the air. We dig in with gusto.
“Y’all remember the night we came here after Cash got the stitches in his eyebrow?” My words are garbled around a bite of beefy goodness. “Luc, you orderedtwocheeseburgers andtwobaked potatoes when Cash said he was picking up the tab.”
“Least I could do after you guys waited with me in the emergency room for three hours,” Cash says around a mouthful.
“For such a skinny kid”—I nudge Luc—“you sure could put it away. I used to wonder if you had a hollow leg.”
