“Luc picked out the lighting. You like it?”
“I don’t like it. Iloveit.”
When her eyes drift upward and she spies the wooden beams we installed to highlight the pitch of the ceiling, her mouth falls open. She blinks at me and points to the beams.
Seeing her seeing the house fills me with pride and, dare I say, a smidge of happiness. “When you helped me pick out the kitchen cabinets, you pointed to a picture with beams like these. ‘Rustic and chic,’ I think is how you described them.”
“They’re beautiful.” She pulls out a rice fritter and pops it into her mouth, spinning in slow circles, appreciating the changes that blood, sweat, and tears have wrought.
That’s not only a saying. The floors and walls of this place hold pieces of me. Bits of my DNA. And maybe—if you believe in that kind of thing—a bit of my life force.
“I can see how it’ll look when it’s all done,” she says. “It’s not just a house anymore, Cash. You’ve made it into a home. And think, forty years from now, you and me and Luc will be sitting in the courtyard, old and wrinkled and drinking sun tea. You’ll have given up the hooch by then.” She gives me a sharp look. “And we’ll be reminiscing about all the wonderful memories you made here. All the Mardi Gras bashes you threw. All the dinner parties.”
My eyes prickle, but I play it off with, “Dinner parties?” I extend my hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Cash Armstrong. Have we met?”
“You’ll see,” she says with a dip of her chin. “This place is so amazing you’ll want to open it up and share it as often as you can.”
“Maybe,” I allow. “But first, I need to finish the fucker. Until then, the seating options are still crap.” I motion toward the folding chairs. “Take a load off. I’ll grab you a glass of milk to wash down those rice balls.”
“Calas,” she calls to my back.
In the newly installed kitchen, I open the refrigerator and stick my head inside, hoping the frosty air is enough to cool the burn of threatening tears.
Forty years from now…
When we’re old and wrinkled…
It takes everything I have not to sink to my knees.
Instead, I suck in a ragged breath and remind myself thatThe Planis almost complete. The thought should bring me comfort. And yet the closer I get to the culmination of everything I’ve worked for, the more it hurts.
I’m still not the man I want to be. The selfless man. The one who gladly, and with an open heart, lets go of the things he should. In short, I’m notLuc.
Closing my eyes only makes that sonofabitching ringing in my ear louder. And this time it’s joined by flashes of multicolored lights that explode and fade behind my squeezed-tight lids. They make me dizzy, so I quickly open my eyes.
Or at least I think I do.
I see nothing but blackness.
There’s enough time for panic to set in before I blink rapidly and my vision snaps back to normal. I stare at the inside of the mostly empty refrigerator, squinting against the harsh interior light, waiting for the blackness to return. But…the seconds tick by, and it never does.
Holy demented shit. This brain thing is a complete cocksucker.
Grabbing the milk, I quickly fill a glass, my nerves jangling like crazy. When I wander back to the living room, Maggie has made herself comfortable in a folding chair, a Restoration Hardware catalog open in her lap.
“I like this one.” She points to a sectional sofa with clean lines, the look on her face saying she’s determined to make the best of this night despite Luc’s glaring absence. “It would look great in the middle of this room, facing the fireplace. And”—she flips a few pages backward—“what do you think of this coffee table? It’s not too modern, not too traditional. As Goldilocks would say, ‘It’s just right.’”
“I like them if you like them.” After my momentary blindness, I’m amazed my voice sounds normal.
“Mmm.” She dog-ears the pages and continues flipping while digging into the bag and pulling out another fritter. “You sure you don’t want one of these? You don’t know what you’re missing. I mean, I already had dinneranddessert tonight, but I can’t stop eating them. They’re so good I might be coming around to Auntie June’s way of thinking.”
“No, thanks. My appetite has been shit lately. And before you start lecturing me about the booze”—I point to her face when she opens her mouth—“I know it’s not good for me. I know I’m only hurting myself worse than I’m already hurt. I know. I know. Iknow.”
The pitying look in her eyes goes to work on my already roiling stomach like a razor blade. Shame sticks in my throat, and I have to change the subject.
“What do you think of this mirror?” I reach over and turn a few pages in the catalog, stopping and pointing at the piece I mean.
She frowns down at the oversize leaner mirror. “I like it. But it’s big. Where would you put it?”
