Burn for You

Why was he doing this, coming here to meet my mother? He didn’t have to do this. I’d already agreed to sign the contract. This was unnecessary.

Mama held the plant in her hands and beamed at it. “What a lovely surprise. You’ve just made my day.” Cradling the violets in her lap like a small, treasured dog, she turned her beam onto Jackson. “What can I offer you to drink, Mr. Boudreaux? Coffee? Water? Something stronger, maybe, an Absinthe Suissesse?”

“Nothing for me, thank you, ma’am. And please, call me Jackson.”

The two of them grinned at each other while I looked on, utterly confused.

Jackson said, “I understand Bianca gets her talent in the kitchen from you, Mrs. Hardwick.”

Mama batted her eyes, coy as sin. “Oh, I taught her a thing or two, but she’s got talents I never had. Creativity, that’s the mark of a true artist! Like the spring menu she put together for her restaurant, for example.” She shot me a proud glance. “Wouldn’t you say that was a stroke of genius, Jackson, all those recipes featuring Boudreaux Bourbon?”

Very gravely, Jackson replied, “The menu is incredible, but I think her true genius is actually with people.” His eyes found mine. His voice changed. “She knows how to make them feel like they matter.”

With his intense gaze burning into mine, I lost the power of language. My tongue sat in my mouth like a lump of soft cheese. I was going to have to take sign language classes to communicate from here on out.

Mama looked back and forth between us for a moment, then sighed.

It was a satisfied sound, filled with relief and pleasure, like when you find something precious you’ve been searching all over for that you thought you’d lost.

Flustered, I looked down at my hands twisting together in my lap.

“Bianca,” said Mama. I looked up to find her giving me make yourself scarce eyes. “Would you mind putting these in my bathroom and giving them a drink?” She held out the violets. “And see if you can find that old photo album from your school days; I want to show Jackson those pictures from when you won the spelling bee in the fifth grade.” Her smile was conspiratorial. “You might have to rummage around in those bookcases in the office for a while, I can’t remember exactly where I put it.”

Stifling the groan that I knew would gain me nothing but a rebuke, I stood and dutifully took the violets. I left them chatting, their voices becoming indistinct as I made my way down the hall into Mama’s bedroom.

I dribbled water into the plant from the bathroom faucet. I set it on the sink and fussed with the tissue paper, smoothing out any stray wrinkles, pursing my lips in consternation. I’d grill Jackson later about how he’d known these were Mama’s favorite flowers, but for now I was still in a mild state of shock that he was even here.

I’d been dreading this. I didn’t want to tell Mama I really was getting married, it wasn’t just some bad joke Eeny had witnessed. Mama’s nose was sharper than a bloodhound’s. She’d guess right away something smelled funny.

But maybe I could put it off until after her surgery. Yes, that’s what I’d do, I decided. No need to run headlong toward disaster. I could ease her into it a little bit.

Then I remembered I’d be living with Jackson before I even got my next period. There was no easing anything at this point.

“Slap, slap, kiss,” I said to the mirror. “And make it sound believable, Bianca!”

My reflection didn’t look very convinced it would work.

I dawdled as long as I could without being obvious, then reentered the parlor with a warning cough. Mama and Jackson were leaning toward each other, deep in conversation, but broke off when I appeared.

Like an old-fashioned gentleman, Jackson stood as I walked into the room.

It made me flush. Mama’s slight, approving head nod made me flush even more.

“Couldn’t find the photo album,” I lied, sitting on the sofa. “It’s probably in the garage.”

“Hmm,” said Mama. “Well, perhaps another time.”

She smiled at me with her eyes. We both knew exactly where all the photo albums were. Stacked in bookcases in what used to be my bedroom.

Jackson abandoned the chair he’d been sitting in before and lowered himself to the couch beside me. His weight made the cushions dip and rolled me slightly toward him. I tried to be casual as I straightened myself, but Jackson draped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side, like he’d done it a million times before.

Blushing furiously, I made a peep of surprise.

Mama said to Jackson, “She gets it from her father, that flush. That and her stubborn streak.”

Jackson chuckled. “She’s stubborn? Gosh, ma’am, I hadn’t noticed.”

They both laughed. I wondered if a person could die of embarrassment.

They talked for a while, easy in each other’s company, while I sat stiff and uncomfortable beside the man who would soon be my husband and watched the woman who raised me charm the pants off him.

He charmed the pants off her, too. The housecoat, I mean.

Finally after what seemed an interminable period I spent examining a crack on the opposite wall, my mother said, “Well. It’s been so lovely visiting with you, Jackson, but I’m afraid I’m feeling a little tired now.”

I snapped back to attention like a dog at the end of a yanked leash. “Are you okay? What can I get you?” I rose, filled with anxiety, but Mama waved me off.

“Nothing at all, chère, nothing at all. I’m just going to go back to bed for a spell. Rest these old bones. Would you lend me a hand?”

I helped her stand, wincing at her fragility. But she pulled herself upright and smiled like she didn’t have a care in the world, and I breathed a little easier.

“It’s been wonderful to meet you,” said Jackson, solemn again. He came forward and gently took my mother’s outstretched hand. “I can see where Bianca gets her beauty and brains.”

“And I can see why she likes you so much,” Mama said warmly. “You remind me an awful lot of her daddy. Crème brûlée, I always called him. Hard as nails on the outside, but inside all soft and gooey sweet.”

I almost dropped dead. “Mama!”

“Oh hush, child, you embarrass too easily.” To Jackson she said, “I can trust you to take care of my baby, now, can’t I, Jackson Boudreaux?”

She was smiling, her tone playful, but there was a steeliness behind her eyes that left no doubt she wasn’t asking a question. She was giving a command, and God help him if he answered the wrong way.

But Jackson rose to the challenge with a quiet grace that surprised me. He said softly, “You can trust me with her life, ma’am.”

It was a simple statement, breathtaking in its honesty. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind he meant exactly what he’d said.

Mama felt the same way. She nodded, the steeliness in her eyes slowly replaced by that strange relief that had echoed in her sigh. Her hand relaxed in mine.

“Would you just help me to the bedroom, chère?” Mama asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ll wait for you outside, Bianca. Mrs. Hardwick.” Jackson slightly bowed his head, managing to look royal, elegant, humble, sophisticated, and sincere, all at once. “I hope to see you soon.”

He made his way to the front door and quietly let himself out.