“If they’re anything like mine, they’re notallpersonal,” I interrupt. “Some are like journal entries, just an accounting of your day. You can choose which ones to read aloud.” When she continues to hesitate, I pull out the big guns. “Come on. It’ll take my mind off Rick.”
“You don’t play fair,” she accuses with a frown.
I make sure my smile is devilish, hoping she doesn’t notice that it’s brittle around the edges and never reaches my eyes. “You’re only now realizing this?” I ask.
Wind whistles through her lips like air being released from a balloon. Then she capitulates by saying, “Fine.”
When she disappears inside, it takes everything I have not to turn and watch her through the window. Turn to see if she reads the poem or simply shoves the journal aside.
I count the seconds inside my head.One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three. Four. Five.All the way up to twenty. And then she’s back with the binder in hand. Was twenty seconds enough time for her to read it?
I study her face, but it’s too dark to see what’s in her eyes. And before she has a chance to sit down, her phone rings.
“Pardon me.” She digs in her pocket for her cell, walking to the corner of the porch to answer her call.
Luc picks up his guitar and plays the opening bars to Steve Earle’s “Sparkle and Shine,”and I’m instantly gripped by a wistful kind of sorrow. In my mind, that song will always be the anthem for the love Maggie and I shared. Not only that, for the friendship thethreeof us shared. It’s a tribute to our young, burgeoning lives. A tribute to days long gone.
I suppose, when you get right down to it, that’s what melancholy is. An admission that time goes by and it never comes back.
“I hate to do this,” Maggie says after ending her call. “But that was Chrissy. Her husband broke his ankle. I need to go cover her shift so she can meet him at the hospital.”
She comes to hug my neck. “Sorry,” she whispers in my ear. “I know this is a terrible time to leave, but Gus can’t cover since his kid is in a basketball tournament and—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I pat her back. “Go take care of your business.”
She kisses my cheek, and her lips are soft and warm. I close my eyes and drag in the smell of her. DespiteThe Plan,I still have the urge to pull her into my lap and hold her against me so the night doesn’t feel so long and lonely.
Handing the binder full of letters to Luc, she goes to touch him on the shoulder and then quickly pulls her hand away. The muscles in Luc’s jaw tick, but he manages a smile and tells her to drive safe.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She snaps her fingers at the doorway. “You were right about needing a reservation to get into the back room at M.S. Rau Antiques. I made one for us this Friday. I assume y’all are in?” After we both tell her we are, her brow wrinkles. “It’s the last excursion on the list,” she says. “For some reason, that makes me sad.”
“All good things must come to an end,” I tell her, trying not to let it show that the thought depresses the hell out of me too.
Chapter Eighty-one
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Maggie
When you burn a bridge, it’s not over. You simply have to learn how to swim.
That’s what I’ve decided to do with Luc. Swim. Go with the flow. Stop fighting the inexorable pull of the current.
The last five days have been crazy hectic. I’ve worked three doubles so Chrissy can help her husband with the dealership. Which means I’m functioning on six hours of sleep every day. Considering I’m a regular eight-hour-minimum girl, that means I’m coasting on fumes. Even so, every morning before opening the bar, I’ve made an effort to stop by Cash’s place with warm beignets and hot coffees in hand.
Cash thinks I’ve become nosy now that the work is near completion. And while that’s partly true, therealreason I’ve been going by is so I can make sure he’s eating at leastsomethingduring the day, but also because it affords me the opportunity to spend time with Luc.
Two birds with one stone, if you know what I mean.
You see, I’ve decided to take everyone’s advice and let this thing between us unfold however it will. Of course, there’s a caveat I’m not sure he’ll agree to, but I hope he will. Because it’s the only solution I can come up with that has any chance of sparing hurt feelings all the way around.
This morning, when Luc took me on a tour of the cottage, I opened my mouth to tell him about my plan, even though the thought of starting something with him still scares the bejeezus out of me because what if it doesn’t work out? Then what? I know he says we’ll always be friends, but how can he be sure? If life has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is certain. But before I could say anything, our hands accidently brushed and those sparks Auntie June talked about? Well, they nearly set my hair on fire.
By the time I’d recovered, Luc had moved away, giving me the rundown on what they still had left to do on the house.
“Do you have an ETA on the final product?” I asked him, hoping he couldn’t hear how dry my throat had become.
“Two weeks.” He glanced around with pride.
