Ihavebeen forgetting things recently. Only yesterday I couldn’t remember where I put my house keys—now that there’s furniture and appliances in the place, I try to remember to lock up. And Monday I completely blanked on a delivery of flower-bed dirt I scheduled. When the guy from the nursery arrived with a truck full of the stuff, I was at Johnny’s getting po’ boys with Luc. The dude was none too pleased he had to wait until I ran back home and unlocked the gate before he could take the dirt around back. Said it put him behind schedule for the whole day.
I tried making up for it by giving him a big tip. But if the scowl he wore as he was leaving was anything to go by, it wasn’t big enough to overcome his irritation at having his day screwed up.
“When did you tell me?” I demand of Luc now, hiding my numb hand beneath the table so no one will see it’s developing a tremor.
“As I was heading out,” he says. “You were on the phone with the guy who’s firing the replacement bricks for the courtyard and—”
“Oh, right.” I nod. Idoremember him mentioning something about dinner, but I wasn’t paying much attention.
“The redfish was amazing,” Maggie gushes to Eva. “He paired it with collard greens and then served Auntie June’s recipe for peach cobbler for dessert.”
“You’re pretty, you dress well,andyou know your way around da kitchen?” Jean-Pierre narrows his eyes at Luc. “You sure you’re not gay?”
That makes everyone at the table laugh.
This is how it’ll be, I realize. Maggie and Luc and family and friends. There will be laughter and stories and coffee dates and… Life will go on like life has always gone on.
I feel Violet’s eyes on me. When I look up, her expression is speculative and maybe a little bit compassionate. Not because of the secret I shared with her, but because she, of everyone at the table, seems to sense how hard this is for me.
Imagine that. Violet Carter is the one person in the whole world who gets it.
I swallow and look away from her. But when I do, I catch Maggie gazing at Luc again with that particular gleam in her eye.
They sayloveis a verb. A conscious act.
Sometimes that conscious act is simply finding the strength to let go…
Chapter Eighty-four
______________________________________
Maggie
First dates are a lot like job interviews. You dress for the part. You practice what you’re going to say. And you pray to God you don’t totally dweeb out.
Checking my reflection in my armoire’s full-length mirror, I have to admit I nailed the first step. I’ve chosen a midcalf black dress with three-quarter bell sleeves and a belted waist. It’s unadorned, so it’s not too fancy. But it’s still nice enough that should Luc decide to take me to one of NOLA’s premier restaurants, I won’t be barred at the door. It plays down my worst assets, namely my upper arms. And plays up my best assets, namely my waist and hips.
And yeah, yeah. I know I’m supposed to be all body positive. I’m perfect as I am. Just the way God made me. Yada yada.
But what I wouldn’t give for Michelle Obama’s arms!
My lips are lacquered with red lipstick titled Pinup Girl. But I’ve gone light on the mascara—Aunt Bea taught me early on that you do lips or eyes, but never both. And I’ve taken a straight iron to my hair, taming its natural waves.
“Hi, Luc,” I practice saying to the mirror. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight. Would you like to start with a glass of wine before we head to dinner?”
Check. Step two, practicing what I’ll say, is complete.
“What do you think?” I pirouette for Yard. He’s lying on my bed, head between his two front paws, watching me with sad brown eyes. He recognizes the signs I’ll be leaving soon. Still, his tail thumps excitedly atop the coverlet when I talk to him.
I decide to take that as a compliment. “Thanks, buddy.” I scratch his soft ears. “Your opinion is always—”
A knock sounds at the door, making me jump in surprise. Yard launches himself off the bed and stands by the door, hopping on his three legs and barking to beat the band.
“Yard! Shush!” But he ignores me, taking his guard-dog duties seriously for once.
“Who is it?” I yell.
Not Luc. He couldn’t have gotten through the gate. And Jean-Pierre never knocks.
