Burn for You

Add onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic and cook until soft and fragrant, about 10 minutes. If pot seems dry, drizzle lightly with olive oil.

Add rice, thyme, bay leaves, paprika, cayenne pepper, and celery salt and stir to mix. Increase heat to high. Add tomatoes, red wine, and chicken stock. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium/low, cover pot, and simmer for 15 minutes or until rice is tender.

When rice is done, add shrimp and green onions. Cook on low for additional 10 minutes or until shrimp is pink and cooked through. Remove bay leaves, fluff jambalaya, and serve, garnishing with fresh parsley.

TWENTY-TWO

BIANCA

After I hung up with Jackson, it took a solid fifteen minutes of dithering before I worked up the nerve to call my mother. She answered on the first ring.

“Hi, Mama. How are you?”

The gentle laugh that came over the line was reassuring. “I told you this morning I’m feeling good today, chère. You worry about me too much.”

“That’s good.”

After listening to the cavernous silence that followed, her mother-bear instincts kicked in. She said sharply, “Bianca? What’s the matter?”

I stared at the kitten poster on the wall of my office until it blurred. “Uh . . .” Be brave. You’ve got this. Terrified, I cleared my throat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She didn’t even miss a beat. “Who, Jackson Boudreaux?”

My jaw hit the desk. When I recovered my wits, I said, “How did you know?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve known Eeny for going on fifty years. Did you think she wouldn’t call me when a man barged into your kitchen and announced you were getting married like you’d just won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes?”

Eeny! I should’ve known she’d blab! The air leaked from my lungs like a punctured balloon.

Mama said, “Well, he might have a reputation for being too big for his britches, but the man must have some sense in his head to fall in love with you.”

Love? I almost slipped into a coma. But what could I say? No, actually we’re only getting married to save his inheritance and your life?

That would so not go over.

Her tone became businesslike. “Bring him by tomorrow at ten o’clock. And be prepared to leave for a few minutes so I can give him the business. He doesn’t get to marry into this family unless he’s good enough for you.”

She hung up, leaving me staring in bewilderment at the phone. The dreamlike feeling intensified.

Body snatchers, I thought. That was the only rational explanation for her nonchalance. Aliens had stolen my mother and replaced her with a robot look-alike. Right now the robot was sitting blank eyed in Mama’s armchair downloading instructions from the mother ship.

Or maybe the chemo had unraveled something inside her brain.

Or I’d been involved in a serious car accident and was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, doped up to the gills, my opiate-soaked brain manufacturing this whole thing.

“Only one way to find out,” I said aloud to the empty room and then cackled like a lunatic.

I was taking the Beast home to meet my mother. The world had officially come to an end.

At five minutes to ten o’clock the next morning, I sat on the edge of the sofa in Mama’s living room, pretending I wasn’t having a brain embolism while I waited for Jackson Boudreaux to knock on the front door.

Regal in purple, Mama sat in her big white armchair, openly studying me. “Doc Halloran’s office called yesterday to confirm the surgery,” she said suddenly.

“Next Wednesday at nine,” I said, nodding. “I remember.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. Four minutes to ten. T minus four minutes. Three. Two. My knee started to bounce.

“In case anything goes wrong—”

My head snapped around. “Nothing will go wrong!” I said too loudly.

She smiled at me, amused. “As I was saying. In case anything goes wrong, I’ve gathered all my important documents and put them in a binder. It’s blue. I’ll leave it on the kitchen table before we go to the hospital.”

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Documents?”

“My will. The title to the house. Copies of insurance policies and bank statements. You know, documents.”

I pressed my cold fingertips to my closed eyelids and breathed deeply.

“Oh, chère,” said Mama softly. “Dying isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s just the only thing I won’t live through.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re not dying!”

She waved a hand impatiently as if to swat away a fly.

A knock like a boom of thunder on the front door made me leap from my seat. “It’s him!” I cried, then stuffed my knuckles into my mouth and stared at the door as if the boogeyman were about to burst through it.

“Well go answer it, child,” Mama chided, shaking her head.

I smoothed my trembling hands down the waist of my dress and gulped in a few brimming lungfuls of air. Then I wobbled to the front door and gracelessly yanked it open.

Jackson stood on my mother’s front porch in a beautiful navy-blue suit and an ice-blue tie that exactly matched the color of his eyes. His dark hair was tamed. There wasn’t a whisper of stubble on his square jaw. In his hands he held a tiny, perfect African violet plant, the pot wrapped in cellophane and lilac tissue paper.

He said solemnly, “Bianca. Good morning.”

I wasn’t sure if the house was sinking or I was floating, but somehow my feet had left the ground. “Jax,” I whispered, completely out of breath.

His eyes flashed with warmth, there then gone. “May I come in?”

I realized I was standing there staring at him stupidly, my mouth hanging open in what was most likely a highly unattractive way. I snapped my jaw shut and nodded. “Of course. Please enter.”

Dear Lord. I sounded like an uptight butler.

Then Jackson was standing in Mama’s living room, a burst of living color and electricity, taking up all the space as he always did.

“Mrs. Hardwick,” he said to my mother. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

Mama flicked me a look. It said: He’s got manners. She held out her hands to him. “Forgive me for not standing, Mr. Boudreaux, but I’ve recently been ill and I’m a little loosey-goosey on my feet, if you know what I mean.”

Jackson crossed to Mama and extended his hand. She clasped it in both of hers, like she was praying. She looked up at him—all the way up—and said, “Goodness! The air must be thin up there, son. Please, take a seat.”

Son? I sank into the nearest chair and concentrated hard on staying upright.

“This is for you, ma’am,” said Jackson politely, parking himself next to Mama in a chair that was woefully undersized for his sprawl. He held out the plant.

The flowers Trace brought the other day had mysteriously vanished.

“Oh.” Mama touched a hand to her throat. She stared at the violets in amazement. “Why, African violets are my favorite! I haven’t seen these in years!” She turned her gaze to me. It was glittering. “Bianca, did you think of this?”

Before I could answer, Jackson said smoothly, “Your daughter is always thinking of you, ma’am.” When his gaze slid to mine, I wanted to cry.