When we hung up it felt like I’d been untethered. I was a little boat who’d lost her moorings and was drifting aimlessly out to sea.
For the next two days, I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I survived on coffee and adrenaline, forgetting to shower until Eeny told me I smelled like a goat. By Wednesday morning I was a wreck. I didn’t know how I’d make it through the funeral without collapsing.
But once again, Jackson’s strength shored me up.
Then he gave my little boat a hard push into rough waters and set me free.
THIRTY-SEVEN
BIANCA
It was a bracing fifty-eight degrees, the sky a clear, brilliant blue above our heads. Eeny stood to my left, crying softly into a handkerchief. Jackson was to my right, stony as the inside of my heart.
The church service was beautiful, attended by almost four hundred people. A gospel choir raised the rafters in song. Hoyt arranged for a jazz funeral procession from Saint Augustine’s to the cemetery. Two dozen musicians in black caps and white dress shirts slowly led the mourners on foot through the streets of New Orleans to the sound of hymns played on trumpets, drums, saxophones, and clarinets. At the grave site there were so many flower arrangements the bees came out in force, adding a gentle hum to underscore the priest’s final blessing of farewell.
Then Mama’s casket was lowered into the ground, and it was done.
Back at the house, the wake lasted for an eternity. Finally, well after nightfall, the house emptied, and I was left alone with my grief and a grim fiancé who looked exactly as wrecked as I felt.
His rough black beard was back. His hair had obviously only been finger combed. He was restless and edgy, a dark thundercloud of mood over his head. Though he wore a suit and tie, he seemed more of the Beast than I’d ever seen him.
“Let’s sit down,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the sofa. “We need to talk.”
Surprised, I sat and folded my hands in my lap while I waited for him to sit, too. That moment never came. He stood looking at the floor, his hands hanging loose at his sides and slightly trembling.
“Jackson?”
He glanced up at me. His eyes were so dark. Something about the look in them made my skin crawl.
Spooked, I said, “What is it?”
He moistened his lips. From the inside pocket of his coat he slowly withdrew a set of folded papers. “We don’t have to draw this out any longer than necessary. I wanted to wait until after . . .”
He swallowed, moistened his lips again, then started anew. “I knew you had so much on your plate. I wanted to wait until after the funeral to give you this.”
He held out the papers. “It’s my copy of our contract.”
Taking the papers, I furrowed my brow in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Jackson dragged a hand through his hair. He loosened his tie, then went to stand at the front window and gazed out at the night like he was no longer holding out hope of finding something he’d lost. His voice low and rough, he asked, “You didn’t think I’d force you to go through with it now, did you?”
When I was silent, stunned because I thought I understood what he meant, he turned to me with a look so anguished it made my heart skip a beat. “Please tell me you don’t think I’m the kind of man who would do that.”
I slowly rose. The papers shook like mad in my hands. “We made an agreement,” I said hoarsely, not recognizing my own voice. “Your inheritance—”
“It hasn’t been about my inheritance for me for a while now, Bianca,” he interrupted harshly, his eyes glittering. “Honestly, I’m not sure it ever was.”
It hung there between us, breathtakingly raw. I whispered, “Jax.”
Something in my expression caused him visible pain. He turned away, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and bowed his head. “I’ll have all your things brought back here. I’m sorry you had to let go of your house. The timing was just”—his laugh was hollow—“shit.”
I wanted to say something—anything—but words wouldn’t come. Jackson was letting me out of our deal. I didn’t have to marry him.
He was going to lose everything.
Finally I came to my senses. A deal was a deal after all, and I wasn’t about to renege on my end of the bargain, no matter what circumstances had changed. “I can’t let you do that,” I said, and dropped the papers on the coffee table. They landed with a dull slap that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
Jackson turned from the window. He looked at the papers, then at my face. Then he crossed the room in a few long strides and picked up the contract. He ripped it in half with one abrupt, savage motion. “Don’t you get it? You’re not obligated to me anymore! You’re free! Go live your life!”