“Good to see you, Mr. Emerson.” When I force a cheerful grin, my face feels fragile and crumbly. “Been a while since you came to visit me at the bar,” I scold him playfully.
He lowers his voice and glances over his shoulder toward the front door. “Mrs. Emerson don’t like me going there. She claims Royal Earl gets me drunk.”
“That’s because hedoes.”
“Yeah, but it’s good to live a little now and again, don’t you think?” He winks. “I’ll stop by once Carnival season starts.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” After I turn away, I let my face fall, and it’s a relief not to have to pretend everything is okay, thatI’mokay, as I continue down the block.
My eyes are so gritty I can barely keep them open, so I take a sip of the coffee I bought for Cash. The taste of the plain black brew makes me wince.
How does he stand the stuff?
Life is bitter enough all on its own. Our chosen libations certainly shouldn’t be.
Trudging up the steps of his front stoop, I lift my hand, but hesitate before knocking. My mind turns back to the things I saw while standing in this exact spot last night. Was that only last night?
I tell myself seeing him with Scarlet shouldn’t hurt. For months, he’s been trying to convince me all we can ever be is friends. And then there’s Luc. Luc and that amazing kiss that didn’t hold back a single thing and instead promised me the moon and stars.
And yet it did hurt seeing Cash with Scarlet.
Why is that?Howis that?
How can I want Luc and still have feelings for Cash?
The edges of my thoughts are jagged and cutting, making me feel like I’m seconds away from bleeding out mentally. But none of that matters right now. Because Sullivan is dead, Luc’s in jail, and Cash is completely in the dark about all of it.
Squaring my shoulders, I rap my knuckles against the door. In the light of day, I notice that Cash has stripped the paint from the wood, leaving the thick oak naked and ready for a new coat. It glows a soft peachy cream.
I wait to hear the sounds of footsteps coming from inside, cringing when it occurs to me those footsteps might belong to Scarlet. But the seconds tick by and…nothing.
I knock again, harder this time, and press my ear against the door. Is it possible they’re in the back room and can’t hear me? Or maybe they’re in the shower together and—
Nope. Not going there.
“Cash!” I toss decorum aside, banging on the door with the side of my fist. “Open up! It’s Maggie! And it’s important!”
The force of my blows sends pain radiating up my arm. That, combined with the past few hours, makes my head ache. Grabbing hold of the door handle, I no longer care about privacy, personal space, or walking in on Cash and Scarlet again.
Luc needs me. Luc needsus.
So screw it!
The knob turns easily in my fist. I havegotto talk to Cash about locking his dadgummed doors and—
All thought screeches to a halt when I step inside and get hit with three things simultaneously. One, the place is dead quiet. No sounds of sex. No running water. Not even the whine and grind of power tools. Two, dust motes dance like fairies in the morning light streaming in through the front windows. And three… I smell blood.
When I was young, my folks took me and my sister to Martinville to visit some of their friends from high school. La Grande Boucherie des Cajuns, a yearly festival in those parts, was going on down the street from our hosts’ house.
Vee and I begged to be allowed to go see what all the music and laughing and carrying-on was about, visions of cotton candy, pony rides, and balloon animals in our heads. But our mother forbade us, saying, “Y’all stay right here in this backyard and play on that old tire swing until your daddy and I call you in for supper, you hear?”
We nodded solemnly. But as soon as the screen door slammed shut, Vee turned to me, an ornery sparkle in her eye—this was back when she gave in to her more rebellious urges—and said, “Let’s go see what we see.”
At eight years old, I idolized her and thought every idea that popped out of her head was pure genius. So I ignored the small inner voice that whispered a warning, telling me we were likely to get caught, and if we did, Momma would tan our hides.
I went with Vee down the street toward the sounds of the festivities. I can still remember skipping along, hand in hand, singing “Say My Name”by Destiny’s Child at the tops of our lungs.
Like pint-sized thieves, we slipped onto the festival grounds, giggling with glee that we were pulling off such a daring caper. As we darted between tents and vendors, our bellies rumbled, but not because of the sweet smell of cotton candy. The far more hearty aromas of cracklin and boudin filled the air.
