Burn for You

Clemmy, in the middle of a swallow of soup, coughed. She dropped her spoon, and it clattered against the bowl.

“Oh! Are you all right?”

Her nurse scowled at me and began petting Clemmy’s chest with a napkin, blotting at little splatters of soup. Clemmy waved her away impatiently. “Sue?” she repeated.

It came out like Shoooe? due to her disfigured lip, but she was perfectly comprehensible.

“Oh yes. He’s very protective of the Boudreaux brand.”

Flabbergasted, Brig and Clemmy stared at each other.

Shiitake mushroom, another minefield! I hurried on, trying to smooth things over.

“And then, uh, he hired me to cater the Wounded Warrior charity benefit he was hosting at his home when his chef quit at the last minute . . .” I faltered in the middle of my sentence when I saw how Jackson’s parents both reared their heads back in surprise at the mention of a charity benefit, but I was too far in to stop. “Which turned out to be an incredibly successful event. You might have read about it in the papers?” No one said anything. I enjoyed a brief and crushing sense of terror. “He raised a few million dollars to help soldiers in need?”

By this time my voice was a pathetic, reedy thing, and I was ready to hide under the table. But then Jackson’s father exhaled and he said, “Well that’s . . . wonderful. That’s really wonderful, son.”

I felt like I’d just scored the winning touchdown. My terror evaporated, I looked to Jackson, grinning.

Glowering at his plate, he slowly pressed the sharp edge of the knife into the grape and sliced it in two.

I tried to kick him under the table, but my legs were too short. “Anyway,” I said too brightly, willing him to look at me, which of course he refused to do. “That’s how it all began. Now here we are!”

My attempt to weave a believable love story ended with a thud. I should’ve just said “Slap, slap kiss” and left it at that. We lapsed into awkward silence.

There were never any awkward silences in my parents’ house during meals. Everyone talked over one another, laughing, ribbing, passing food and sharing stories, easy and happy in one another’s company. What had happened to this family to make things so bad?

I could tell both of Jackson’s parents had affection for him, though it didn’t look anything like my definition of love. But mostly there seemed to be a chasm of silence no one was willing to be the first to reach across. And Jackson was visibly wilting with each passing minute. I didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to sit in his chair before he slid onto the floor and expired.

Suddenly I missed Mama with such ferociousness it brought a stinging heat to my eyes. I dabbed at them with a corner of my napkin.

Sounding genuinely concerned, Brig said, “Bianca? Are you all right?”

Jackson finally looked at me. When his head jerked up, his narrowed eyes were a little too much to take, so I looked over at Brig and forced a smile.

“Don’t mind me. I suppose I’m just homesick. A few hours away from New Orleans and I’m all out of sorts.”

“Are you originally from New Orleans? Your accent is a little . . .”

He trailed off, not wanting to insult me, and I laughed. “I know. It’s a mess. My mama’s side of the family is Creole, but my daddy was from Alabama. I picked up so much of both their slang and twang my accent’s all mixed up.”

Brig said warmly, “It sounds just fine to me. What does your father do?”

I noticed that Brig didn’t even bat an eye when I mentioned the word Creole. If there had been any doubt in his mind as to the origin of my dusky skin, now there could be none. I felt a twinge of shame at assuming he’d judge me, and scolded myself.

“He was an attorney. But he passed away years ago.”

His face fell. “Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that, Bianca.”

I sighed. “It’s all right. I miss him like crazy, but I have great memories of him. He was the kindest, most honorable and generous man I ever knew.” After a short pause, I added honestly, “Aside from Jackson.”

I took a bite of salad from my plate. It was only after a minute of chewing that I realized no one was saying anything, but they were all staring at me. Even the servants.

But it was Jackson’s eyes that blazed.

The head manservant, Droopy Dog I was now calling him in my mind, leapt into action to save us from whatever new disaster I’d blundered into. “More wine?” he shouted, grabbing a carafe from the middle of the table. He loomed over me, perspiring, smiling so hard it looked painful.

“Yes. Thank you.” A loaded gun will do just fine, too, I thought, miserably embarrassed without even the satisfaction of knowing why.

I was abruptly so mad at Jackson I could spit. How could he let me wander into the haunted forest without giving me any clues where all the ghosts and goblins were lying in wait? Did everyone in the room know about our little marriage bargain? Was everyone laughing at me? Was I sitting here in front of these insanely rich people and their gawking servants making a complete and utter fool of myself?

I chugged the glass of wine Droopy Dog poured me and motioned for another. He looked sympathetic as he poured.

I stabbed a chicken leg from one of the platters and deposited it onto my plate with an inelegant thunk. Then I started to saw through it, all angry elbows and flashing utensils, making a racket and a mess and a spectacle of myself.

But I didn’t care anymore. I was fresh out of charm. If Brig and Clemmy decided to hate me because I was savaging a piece of poultry, they could go straight to the devil’s doorstep and ring the bell.

I am my mother’s daughter, I thought angrily, sawing away at the bone like an enthusiastic medical student with a fresh cadaver. I was my father’s pride and joy. I will NOT be the butt of anybody’s joke!

Across from me, Jackson darkly chuckled.

I pointed my knife in his face. “Not a word out of you, Boudreaux!” I hissed. Then I jammed a piece of chicken in my mouth and started chewing like a farm animal.

The servants were making googly eyes at one another like this was the greatest performance of theatre they’d seen in their lives.

Apparently Jackson had finally left me twisting in the wind long enough, because he stood, making a great display of noisily shoving back his chair, and announced, “Mother. Father. Please excuse us. I think Bianca and I need to talk.”

“You’re darn tootin’!” I muttered, prompting a hysterical cackle from a servant at the far end of the room, who quickly smothered it with a cough.

Not wanting to let Jackson outdo me, my chair flew back as I leapt to my feet, hitting Droopy Dog in the process. He let out a pained, “Oof!”

I apologized, then looked at Clemmy and Brig. “Thank you for the wonderful meal and your hospitality. I’m sorry if I’m being rude, and you both seem like lovely people, but now I have to go jerk a knot in someone’s tail”—I glared at Jackson—“and depending on how that conversation goes, I may or may not require a bail bondsman. Have yourselves a wonderful evening.”

I left with my chin high, smoke pouring from my ears, the sound of Brig’s startled laughter ringing off the dining room walls.

I managed to make it all the way back to Jackson’s room and get the door closed behind us before I let Jackson have it. I whirled on him and did my best impression of a banshee, while he made a beeline for the coffee table in the corner, which held several crystal decanters of liquor and a set of matching highball glasses.