Burn for You

Brig decided on, “Thank you for changing out of that dreadful leather jacket.”

Jackson went stiff. “That was Christian’s jacket,” he snarled.

My ears perked up. Christian? His dead friend Christian? Cody’s father Christian? I had a terrible suspicion that jacket might mean a lot more to Jackson than an item of clothing normally would and suffered a bout of guilt that I’d asked him to take it off. I thought of all the times I’d seen him wear it, thinking what a crappy old thing it was, and my heart sank.

“I made him put on a dress shirt for dinner,” I said into the thundering silence. “But I think that jacket looks great on him. Not everyone can pull off the vintage look.”

Brig stared at me for a hair longer than was comfortable. “Indeed.” He cleared his throat.

Oozing fury, Jackson stood beside me, a plank of wood bristling with rusty nails. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back so hard I thought he’d crush my bones.

“So. Bianca. Jackson tells me you’re a chef?”

“That’s right. I recently opened my first restaurant in New Orleans.”

“How marvelous. I understand your mother was also in the restaurant business?”

I glanced at Jackson, wondering exactly how much he’d told his father about me, and nodded. “She had a spot in the Ninth Ward for about twenty years before Hurricane Katrina wiped it out. She retired after that.”

Brig looked distressed. “I’m sorry to hear that. She didn’t want to rebuild?”

“We didn’t have the money to rebuild.”

At the mention of money, Brig’s eyes glazed over. “Well. It’s wonderful that you’re carrying on the family tradition. Your mother must be very proud.”

If I thought Jackson was stiff before, now he became an icicle. But he didn’t say a word. It was like he’d shut down all cylinders except the outrage one.

I knew I was in the middle of an ancient family drama and was ticked at Jackson for not giving me a compass to navigate my way. Judging by his silent performance so far, I’d have to float the conversation for the rest of the night.

But no matter how ticked at Jackson I was, I’d be damned if I’d let him get picked on. Especially by his own father. And there was no mistaking that last comment was a pointed jab.

I looked Brig dead in the eye. “Oh, she is. But she’d be proud of me even if I were unemployed and living on food stamps. She’s not the kind of person who only loves her child unless she’s following her own definition of success.”

I know I didn’t imagine the low intake of breath from the gathered servants or the way the room went electric. But I pretended I did, and so did Brig.

He said quietly, “Of course not. Parents always love their children, even when they make it hard for us to do so.”

He and Jackson locked eyes.

Hello, giant squirming can of worms, please sit down and make yourself comfortable. If things got any more tense, I might shatter.

With a squeak of wheels, Jackson’s mother rolled into the room.

She was pale, blonde, and fragile looking, with the exception of her blue eyes, which were lioness fierce. One side of her mouth pulled into a grimace, one hand curled to a claw on her lap. Her hair was scraped severely off her face into a low bun. Around her neck she wore a triple strand of pearls so tight it was probably cutting off her circulation. Pushing her wheelchair was a stout, middle-aged woman in a starched white nurse’s uniform and rubber-soled shoes who looked like someone had threatened that everyone she ever knew would be murdered if she smiled.

Jackson’s mother was even more terrifying than Dracula’s dining room. I had to physically force myself to stand still and not turn and run screaming from the house.

“Ah!” said Brig. “Clemmy, come and meet Bianca.” He acted as if Jackson weren’t even in the room.

Clemmy cut her gaze to me. Her eyes were like ice in an ancient arctic lake that never thaws. A cat’s hiss rose in the back of my throat, and I swallowed. Then she turned her eyes to Jackson. I glanced at him and found him white-faced and tight-lipped, in deep distress.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was it with these people? I decided I’d had enough of this nonsense.

“Mrs. Boudreaux. I’m so happy to meet you.” I dropped Jackson’s hand and marched resolutely over to Clemmy, a salesman’s grin stretching my cheeks. The nurse looked on, alarmed, as I reached out and gently clasped Clemmy’s good hand between my own. I said warmly, “Your home is so beautiful. Thank you so much for having me.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop. For an eternity, no one moved a muscle.

Then the uncrooked side of Clemmy’s mouth turned up, and her iceberg eyes thawed a few degrees. In a halting, slightly distorted voice, she said, “Thank you for coming.”

I thought the manservant would collapse into a heap in his corner.

Deciding to push my luck, I said, “Your son has been giving me fits since the day I met him, but I know he must get his big heart from you and your husband. I’m so looking forward to getting to know you both better.”

I’d astonished her. She stared at me with her lips parted, blinking rapidly, looking like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or put her good hand around my throat and crush my esophagus. After a moment she recovered her composure. “That’s very kind.”

Two of the servants against the opposite wall were now openly gaping at me.

This could actually be fun.

I released her hands and turned to Jackson with arched brows and a look he couldn’t misunderstand. His gaze darted back and forth between his mother and me several times, then he lurched forward. He crossed to us, bent stiffly to kiss her cheek, then stood on my other side, using me as a buffer between them. He clasped my hand like it was a life vest.

Standing on the other side of the dining room, Brig beamed. He made emcee wide open arms again and boomed, “Let’s eat!”

TWENTY-NINE

BIANCA

While Brig and I enjoyed a friendly chat about nothing of importance, Jackson spent the meal staring morosely down at his plate and guzzling goblet after bloody goblet of wine. I’d never seen him so miserable, which was saying something.

His parents were seated at opposite ends of the long dining table. Jackson and I sat across from each other, separated by a forest of food platters, wine carafes, and fruit bowls. The candelabra flickered and dripped wax. The servants stood vigilant guard against the walls. It was like something straight out of a Pride and Prejudice adaptation.

Not once did Jackson meet my eyes.

“So you two met at your restaurant?” Brig said as a footman or whatever he was called leaned over me with a platter of fish. It oozed a creamy yellow sauce that had a disturbing resemblance to phlegm. I politely declined.

“Yes, we did. Jackson came in to sample my spring menu, which was inspired by Boudreaux Bourbon. Didn’t he mention it?” I said when Brig looked startled. “All the recipes are made with your family’s bourbon.”

Brig looked as astonished as his wife had when I’d taken her hand. “No,” he said faintly, gazing at me with wide eyes. “No, he didn’t mention it.”

I glanced at Jackson, who was gloomily pushing a grape back and forth across his empty plate with a knife.

“It’s true. In fact, he threatened to sue me for copyright infringement on the family’s trademark.”