Burn for You
That was before I became such a disappointment.
I said, “I think sometimes it’s easier for a man to be the worst version of himself than to let the world keep breaking his heart.”
Mama cracked open an eye. “You been hittin’ the sauce this morning, baby?”
I sighed deeply, fighting exhaustion. “I wish. A nice little soul-numbing habit would go a long way on a day like this. But never mind me, what can I get you to eat?”
At the mention of food, her complexion turned faintly green. “Lord, please don’t talk to me about food.”
“You have to eat something, Mama,” I insisted. “You need your strength. How about some applesauce or white rice? A bit of boiled chicken?”
Mama weakly waved me away. “Nothing. I couldn’t keep it down, baby. Just let me sleep for a bit, I’ll feel better later.”
But I knew she wouldn’t. I knew this was going to be one of the bad days, the days when she’d never even make it out of bed.
I put a fresh pillow under her head, kissed her cheek, and turned off the light on my way out of the room. I knew I couldn’t leave her alone all day. I’d have to come back before first seating at the restaurant to check on her. Her doctor had mentioned the possibility of having a home health-care nurse stop by a few times a week during the day to help out, and that was looking like a good idea.
I’d thought I could take care of everything myself—running the restaurant and whatever Mama needed in terms of support and daily care—but I was beginning to have my doubts.
The second round of chemo started in a few days. If it was anywhere near as bad as the first, I was going to need an army of help.
I boiled a chicken breast and some plain white rice and left it in the fridge with a note in case she felt a little better later. When I was about to leave, an envelope on the kitchen table caught my eye.
It was from the hospital. It hadn’t been opened.
I slid my finger under the glued flap, removed the folded piece of paper, and all the blood drained from my face.
INVOICE. Big, blocky letters screamed from the upper right-hand corner.
When I read the amount due at the bottom, I sank into the kitchen chair.
Then I had myself a good, long cry.
BIANCA’S BLACKBERRY & BOURBON COBBLER
Makes 8–10 servings
12 cups fresh blackberries
¾ cup raw sugar
¼ cup high-quality bourbon
cooking spray
½ vanilla bean
1 cup granulated sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon table salt
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1½ cups milk
1 egg
¾ teaspoon vanilla extract
6 tablespoons butter, melted
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine blackberries, raw sugar, and bourbon in a large bowl. Transfer mixture to a 13² x 9² baking dish lightly greased with cooking spray.
Split vanilla bean, and scrape seeds into granulated sugar, making sure vanilla bean seeds are distributed evenly.
Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and granulated sugar mixture into a large bowl. Stir in lemon zest. Whisk together milk, egg, and vanilla extract, and then stir into dry ingredients. Add melted butter and stir.
Pour batter evenly over fruit. Place dish on a baking sheet.
Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour and 10 minutes or until crust is deep golden brown.
FIFTEEN
JACKSON
I was barely listening to my father prattling into my ear as I stared out the window of the library into the sunny spring morning outside. My attention was preoccupied with thoughts of Bianca Hardwick.
Sweet, sassy, fascinating Bianca, who spoke her mind and worried about her sick mother and knew how to make a man feel like a king with her kiss.
No wonder her idiot ex was still sniffing around.
In the four days since the benefit, I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind. Even when I was sleeping. I’d woken up with a stiff cock every morning, tortured by dreams of her sweet mouth, how soft her eyes had looked after she kissed me, how her hand had curled so tightly into my hair. Every night I’d decided to go into her restaurant, only to change my mind on the drive there and turn around and go home.
I’d said too much, acted too strangely, even threatened her ex with bodily injury. She must think I’m a lunatic. An unstable, depressed, hotheaded lunatic who’d be better off—
“—married,” said my father.
My attention snapped back to the present. “Sorry? Who’s getting married?”
“You are, son.”
After I got my bearings, I said flatly, “I think we both know that’s never going to happen.”
The following pause wasn’t long, but it was cavernous, and echoed with his disappointment. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?”
My pulse quickening, I tightened my hand around the phone. “What are you talking about?”
My father’s deep sigh echoed over the line. “I’m talking about your obligations to this family. I’m talking about your mother’s broken heart. I’m talking about your trust, Jackson.”
“My trust?” I repeated, confused. I’d heard the family obligations and broken heart themes a million times before, but my father had never mentioned my trust.
He’d set it up for me when I was born. When I turned twenty-one, I started to get monthly distributions from it. Monthly distributions in seven figures, which allowed me to live . . . well, like I did.
Without my trust, I’d be penniless.
Ironically, without my trust I also wouldn’t be the people-hating hermit I was today. Thank you, Cricket.
My father said, “Yes. Your trust. Which, as you’d know if you’d ever bothered to read the thing, stipulates that you must be involved in the day-to-day operation of Boudreaux Bourbon to continue to receive. In lieu of that, you must marry by thirty-five.”
I opened my mouth and found myself unable to speak.
My father said, “I put that last one in place so you didn’t piss away every dime on strippers and blow, like Harvey Culligan’s son did. And thirty-five is generous, you have to admit! I could’ve made it twenty-five, but I figured a man deserves a few good years to sow his wild oats before he gets hitched. Hoein’ around builds character. To a point.”
I would’ve laughed, convinced he was joking, but one thing my father never joked about was money.
Into my astonished silence he said, “Your mother and I have been very, very patient with you, son. This conversation never needed to happen at all if you’d just married Cricket and taken over as Master Distiller like you were supposed to. But after what you did to that poor girl, well . . .”
Oh my God. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
My father’s voice turned brisk. “We don’t need to go over all that mess again. My point here, Jackson, is that you’re my only son. You’re the heir to this whole thing the Boudreaux family has built over eight generations. If you continue to shirk your obligations and refuse to at least settle down and give your mother the grandbabies she wants, then I’m sorry to say, but you’re gonna be cut off without a red cent to your name.”
I made a little strangled sound, which my father took as his cue to end the conversation.
“I’ve been beatin’ around the bush about this for years because I felt bad about the state you’ve been in, but now I’ll put it to you straight. You have until your birthday to get your ass back to Kentucky and take over as Master Distiller, or get married. To a decent girl, mind you. I’m not welcomin’ a hoochie mama into this family! And before you think about bein’ tricky and gettin’ a quickie divorce, you should know that any marriage you enter into needs to last at least five years for you to continue to get your money. The decision’s yours.”