“Cash was good at keeping secrets,” she whispers, a hitch in her voice.
“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t love us, Maggie May,” I assure her. “It only means he was prideful up until the end.”
She’s having trouble coming to terms with Cash choosing to keep his tumor a secret from us. But I understand why he did it.
If he’d told us, he would havebecomehis tumor. Even if Maggie and I had tried not to, we couldn’t have helped treating him like a cancer patient. Like a dying man instead of our pain-in-the-ass friend. And that would’ve wrecked what little time he had left.
Plus, I’m sure he didn’t want to listen to us begging him to seek treatment. We would have done that. Even now, I find myself wishing he’d tried. Wishing he’d given us all a little more time.
Grabbing Maggie’s hand, I press the doorbell. A traditionalding-dongsounds from inside, and a shadow moves behind the frosted glass. Then a small woman of indeterminate age with a neat bun and thick glasses greets us with a smile.
“You must be Luc and Maggie,” she says. “Cash told me all about you.” Her smile falters. “Such a tragedy for one so young and full of life. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I’ve always hated that phrase.Sorry for your loss.What the hell are you supposed to say in return? Thank you? Thank you for being sorry for my loss?It seems ridiculous, so I don’t say anything at all. Neither does Maggie.
“Yes, well…” The woman clears her throat. “Come on through, then. Greg’s ready for you.”
She leads us down a wide hall past a parlor and a well-appointed dining room. Here in the South, it’s not unusual for folks to still conduct business out of their homes. More personal that way.
We reach a large cherrywood door with an impressive crystal knob. She opens the door to reveal a small anteroom with a desk, filing cabinets, and a large leather sofa. Another door to a more impressive room stands wide. I can see bookshelves filled with leather-bound law volumes and a mahogany desk as big as the living room in the swamp house. The entire place smells of furniture polish.
“Go on in,” she tells us, motioning toward the open door.
Maggie and I exchange a glance before pushing our way inside Gregory Allen Toussaint’s office. He’s on the phone. When he sees us, he lifts a finger to indicategimme a momentand gestures to the two upholstered wingback chairs in front of his desk.
I study him as he winds down his call. He’s middle-aged but still slim and fit. He has all his hair, but its oddly uniform color makes me think the dark hue comes from a bottle. And he has the kind of deep tan that only yachtsmen and golfers ever achieve.
“Sorry about that.” He skirts his desk to shake our hands. Only after the introductions are over does he resume his seat. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he makes a steeple of his fingers. “From the pensive looks on your faces, I take it you didn’t know Mr. Armstrong had a will drawn up.”
“No, sir.” I shake my head. “In fact, I’m a little confused how and when he coulda had the opportunity, seeing as how I’ve been working with him morning, noon, and well into most nights ever since we came back to this city.”
“Mr. Armstrong first came to see me the evening after he purchased the house on Orleans Avenue,” Toussaint says, absently adjusting the angle of his red tie.
My mind drifts back to that day. I recall how Cash told me to he had some legal stuff to take care of, but he made it sound like it had to do with the house. Not that he was seeing someone about awill.
“We did a preliminary will then,” Toussaint goes on. “Then we finalized the document a few weeks ago.” His voice drops a decibel or two, and sadness darkens his eyes when he adds, “When I read the obituary inThe Times-Picayuneyesterday, I called you first thing. Mr. Armstrong was adamant I ‘get my ass in gear and get the will read’—his words, not mine—as soon as he was gone. He didn’t want to drag things out. He wanted it all ticked and tied up so you two could move on with your lives as quickly as possible.”
“Lord, that sounds just like him.” Maggie grabs my hand. She’s smiling, but there are tears in her eyes.
Toussaint’s mouth twists. “There was just something about Mr. Armstrong, wasn’t there? Even in the little time I knew him, that much was obvious. It’s a shame what happened. I hope he didn’t suffer. In the end, I mean.”
Maggie’s grip tightens. Death, especially one like Cash’s, is a strange thing. You don’t know if it’s peaceful or painful. No one ever comes back to tell you about it. You simply have tohopethere wasn’t any suffering involved.
“Right.” Toussaint nods. “So let’s honor Mr. Armstrong’s wishes and get on with it.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a manila envelope. From inside it, he removes a sheaf of papers. “Not sure if y’all are going to need these”—he slides a box of tissues our way—“but just in case. And if you want me to stop at any point in the reading, tell me. We can get through this as quickly or as slowly as you like.”
Maggie glances at me, apprehension in her eyes. I scoot my chair close to hers so I can put an arm around her shoulders.
“All right,” I tell the lawyer, my heart fluttering inside my chest. “We’re ready.”
Pulling reading glasses from his breast pocket, Toussaint perches them on the end of his nose and begins. “‘I, Cassius Armstrong, of New Orleans, Louisiana, being of full age, sound mind, memory and understanding, but aware of the fleeting nature of life, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament.’”
Maggie swallows noisily. It’s not thelast willpart that gets to her. I know because that’s not the part that gets to me. It’s thelast testamentpart. These are Cash’s final words. The last we’ll ever hear from him.
“‘First, I declare that I am not married and have no issue because I didn’t have time,’” Toussaint continues. “‘Life is cruel. That’s a fact. But it’s also incredibly sweet, and I don’t regret a minute of the time Ididhave.’” Toussaint winces and looks at us over his glasses. “I counseled Mr. Armstrong away from including personal statements in his will, but he told me if these were his last words, then, by God, he was going to say what he wanted to say.”
Despite everything, I feel the corners of my mouth curve. “Sounds ’bout right.”
“Yes, well…” Toussaint clears his throat and goes on reading. “‘Second, it is my wish that there be no formal funeral of any kind after my death and that my remains be promptly given into the custody of Lucien Armstrong and Magnolia Carter who will know what to do with my body.’”
