Cash
Sometimes getting what you want isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
For months, all I’ve wanted is for Luc and Maggie to admit to themselves and each other what I’ve known all along. But now that they have—and believe me, they have; it’s there in their eyes anytime they look at each other—there’s a…a…lonelinessto it that I didn’t count on. I’m still here, but it’s like a part of me is gone.
The part of me that was an integral part ofthem.
“This weekend, Aunt Bea is hosting her annual masquerade ball to celebrate Carnival season,” Maggie says, taking a bite of beignet. “Y’all are invited, of course.”
Powdered sugar lands on her chin, and when Luc reaches over to thumb it away, she smiles at him and then blushes prettily. “Thanks.” Her voice is rough.
I have to look away.
Thought I’d be better at this. But deep down, I’m a selfish bastard. Which I guess goes to show there’s a lot more of Rick in me than I like admitting—may henotrest in peace.
Even the bright sunshine and the lively chatter of the diners at Café Du Monde can’t lighten my dark mood. And the sheen of powdered sugar that tends to dust everything in the place, something I usually find charming, today only irritates. Every time I shuffle my feet, the soles of my boots stick to the floor.
“I reckon now that we’re back to stay, Cash and I should invest in tuxedos.” Luc blows over the top of his café au lait. “With as many celebrations as your aunt throws, they’ll pay for themselves soon enough. What’d’ya say, Cash? Wanna go shopping this week? We could head over to Rubensteins and let ’em fit us up with a coupla custom numbers.”
“I’ll stick with a rental,” I tell him, uncapping my flask and adding a generous portion of whiskey to my coffee. The buzz in my ear is almost unbearable today. It’s worse than the headache. And that’s saying something.
He studies me with a frown and I carefully avoid his gaze. It’s getting more and more difficult to hide things from him. Soon, it’ll be all but impossible.
“Mes amis!” Jean-Pierre appears beside our table, one hand on my shoulder, the other on Luc’s.
“Well, look who got up before noon on a Sunday,” Maggie says cheerfully. “I thought you—good Lord! What happened to you?”
I glance up to find Jean-Pierre looking like he’s gone ten rounds with a swarm of angry mosquitoes and lost. There are painful-looking red spots on his chin and cheeks. A few more run down his neck. His fedora is pulled low over his brow, but the shadow of the brim does little to hide his current affliction.
“He went hunting for snipe and ended up atop a fire ant mound,” Eva says, materializing next to Jean-Pierre and sorrowfully shaking her head.
“Eva!” Maggie jumps up and circles the table to hug her neck. “How’d your date go last night? You never responded to my text, so…” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“I didn’t respond because I was too depressed once I got home,” Eva says as she and Jean-Pierre grab some empty chairs and pull them up to our table. “I think he was more interested in theideaof me than he was in me as a person. The only questions he asked me were about which famous models or celebrities I’ve met.”
“Ugh.” Maggie retakes her seat. “Another one?”
“It’s slim pickings out there, girl. I keep telling you. And the good ones are either taken, not interested, or…” She hooks a thumb at Jean-Pierre. “Gay.”
“You’ll find one,” Maggie assures her. “Probably far, far away from the fashion industry.”
“Trouble is, I’ve been working so much that industry folks are all I meet.” Eva plops down beside me. Then she continues, “I was feeling sorry for myself when I woke up this morning, so I stopped by your place hoping to convince you to come have breakfast with me. But then I remembered this was one of your standing Sunday brunches with these two fine fellows. Good morning, by the way, fine fellows.”
“Eva, pleasure seeing you. As always.” Luc beams at her with those dimples. Like most women, she can’t help grinning back.
“When she couldn’t get you, she settled for me.” Jean-Pierre takes the seat on the other side of Eva. “Made me come out even lookin’ like dis.” He points to his spotted face.
“Right.” Maggie gives him the once-over. “So let’s hear it. I thought you went to your grandparents’ place for a fish fry last night. How the heck did you end up hunting snipe?”
“Uncle Etienne likes ’em,” he says. “And since dey are in season, he thought we could go out and bag us a few and have Mawmaw add ’em to da cornmeal she was already doin’ da fish with.”
“Wait a minute.” I lift a hand to stop him talking. “I thought a snipe hunt was a practical joke. You know, take some city kid out into the swamp, give him a gunnysack, and tell him to use it to catch a snipe. Then he ends up running around all night long trying to find some mythical creature.”
“A snipehuntis a practical joke,” Luc explains. “But snipes are real. They’re a marsh bird. Taste kinda like quail.”
“Huh. Well, what do you know?”
“Anyway,” Jean-Pierre goes on, “we’re out in da middle of nowhere, and all I had on was dis little ol’ pair of jeans and my wingtips.” He lifts a foot so we can all see his scuffed shoes. “Me, I was gettin’ plumb torn up by all da brush and den I found me a patch of bare earth to stand on.”
