This might be the first time that seeing her hasn’t made me want to sing with pleasure. Instead, it takes everything I have not to howl with pain.
“Is this the best day ever, or what?” she asks, skipping toward us and happily climbing the stoop steps. When she stops in front of me, I realize, yep, I’m more mad at her.
How could shedothat? How could she lead me to think she—
I don’t finish the thought, because her expression suddenly clouds. “Not that there’s anything to cheer about George being gone,” she’s quick to say. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s the best day ever because you’re officially free and clear, Luc!” Her grin returns. “Which means all is right with the world.”
She bends to squeeze my neck and her nearness acts on my mind the way it always does, blanking it, turning it to mush.
“See?” she whispers in my ear, her cheek flush against my own, “Good thingsdohappen to good people.”
If she notices I’m not hugging her back, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she straightens and asks, “What about the other potential charges? Like the obstructing justice by not reporting Dean’s death to the police?”
I can’t answer her on account of I’m doing my best to grind my molars to dust.
Cash lifts an eyebrow at me and then answers on my behalf. “Abelman said that didn’t hold any water, and no prosecutors were willing to take it on.”
“I can’t believe it.” Maggie shakes her head in happy wonder. “It’s actually over. We’ve come to the last link in the chain. Mark your calendars, gents. From here on, today will officially be celebrated as our independence day!”
Tipping back my beer, I let the soothing taste of hops and barley slide down my throat. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do jack shit to douse the fire burning in my heart.
Frowning slightly, she glances from me to Cash. “Am I missing something?”
No. ButIwas. That night when she sat on my couch and asked me to kiss her, I was missing the whole story. Missing the whys and the hows of her sudden arrival, because all I wanted was to fall into her arms and drown in her lips.
I’m such a fool.
Cash watches me closely, waiting for me to say something. When it’s obvious I’ve lost the ability to speak, he gestures to the brown paper sack clutched in Maggie’s hand. “What’s in the bag?”
She wiggles her eyebrows and brandishes it above her head like it’s the Golden Snitch. “Now, I know a situation like this usually calls for a magnum of champagne, but I’ve got something even better.” She pulls out a perfectly browned rice fritter and offers it to Cash.
He eyes the treat suspiciously. “What is it?”
She blinks at him. “Whatisit? Calas, silly.”
When he scrunches up his nose, her mouth falls open. “Are you telling me that all this time you’ve spent in New Orleans and you’ve never had calas?” She glances at me. “I can’t believe it. Obviously, we’ve been derelict in our duty as locals.”
I don’t look at her. Ican’tlook at her. Instead, I stare out at the street.
From the corner of my eye, I see that she frowns slightly, but then shakes her head as if she must be imagining things and explains to Cash, “Slaves brought the recipe with them from the rice-growing regions of Africa, and when the Spanish ruled the city, the slave women would cook them up and sell them on the streets on their day off from work. Apparently, the Spanish had laws that said slave owners had to allow their slaves one day of rest a week. Theyalsohad laws that said a slave had to be allowed to buy their freedom, so the slave women used their calas money to do exactly that. Cool, huh?”
She blinks. “Not slavery, of course. I mean thehistoryof calas are cool and—” She shakes her head. “Oh, never mind. Y’all know what I mean. Anyway, Auntie June loves them. She claims they’re better than beignets.” Wiggling the fritter under Cash’s nose, she tempts, “Here. Tell me how youthink they measure up.”
“Hard pass.” He shoves her hand away. “I’m sticking with the booze and the beer tonight.”
Her mouth forms a moue of disapproval. “You’ve been sticking with the booze and the beer too many nights from the looks of you.”
“Your concern is duly noted.” He salutes her with his beer.
She sighs exasperatedly, but slaps on a bright smile when she offers me the fried treat. Powdered sugar falls on the step in front of me. “Luc? You know you want it.”
“Actually”—I find my voice, but I can’t keep the bitterness from it—“I don’t.” Setting aside my beer, I stand.
She drops the fritter back into the bag and frowns up at me, then down at Cash, and then back up at me. “For a couple of guys who finally have things going their way, neither of you seems very happy.”
Cash tilts his head back, giving me a long look. Then he shrugs and says, “You’re right. Thisisa night for celebration. Why don’t we pretend to be tourists and go sing karaoke at the Cat’s Meow?”
“Oh my gosh!” She does a hop of excitement. “We always talked about doing karaoke, but you were too shy to get up onstage, Luc, and—oooh! Oooh! We could sing “Bootylicious”! Y’all can do Kelly’s and Michelle’s parts, and I, of course, will do Beyoncé’s part. You know I love me some Queen B!”
