It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.
Then he strolled up to the microphone and started to speak, and that smooth, rich-like-molasses voice proved that it was.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’m Jackson Boudreaux.”
The place went wild. Three hundred people jumped from their chairs and clapped and hollered and whistled, making such a racket it could probably be heard for miles.
I stared around at all the clamoring people, wondering if someone had spiked their drinks with cocaine. All this excitement for the Beast?
“Thank you so much for coming,” Jackson said over the noise. “I’m honored to welcome you to my home.”
Who is this person? I thought, stunned. This polite, charming person?
Standing there onstage, in a tuxedo that fit his large, muscular frame so perfectly it had to be custom-made, with his dark hair slicked back and his face freshly shaved, was a stranger. A smiling stranger who sounded like Jackson and called himself Jackson, but looked nothing like the man I knew.
The Jackson Boudreaux I knew made Chewbacca look well groomed.
The Jackson Boudreaux I knew made King Kong seem civilized.
The Jackson Boudreaux I knew didn’t look like Superman and dress like James Bond and have a crowd of three hundred people on their feet, showering him in adoration.
Maybe I was hallucinating. I put the back of my hand to my forehead, testing for fever, but it was cool and dry.
New and Improved Jackson said, “As you may know, I first became involved with the Wounded Warrior Project after my best friend, Christian LeFevre, was wounded while serving in the Marines in Afghanistan.”
So this is why Jackson’s involved with the charity. How tragic. I listened with my hand over my mouth as he went on.
“A roadside bomb took Christian’s legs but not his love of his country, his joy for life, or his dedication to serving others. Though complications from his amputations ultimately claimed his life, the Wounded Warrior Project was there for him in his final months the way no other organization could have been.”
Jackson’s voice broke. He stopped speaking abruptly, ran a hand through his hair, and drew a slow breath.
I watched, enthralled. He had feelings. The Beast had feelings.
I’d seen his irritation before, of course, and had also seen firsthand his devotion for Cody. But this was something else altogether. This was raw. This was powerful.
This was vulnerable.
If someone pointed a gun at my head and demanded I describe what I was feeling in this moment or get a bullet in my brain, they would’ve had to shoot me.
In a more subdued tone, Jackson continued. “In the four years since Christian’s death, I’ve witnessed firsthand how many lives this organization has touched. How many lives it has changed for the better. How many lives it has saved. This nation and all its citizens owe a great debt to the brave men and women who serve in our military. But the greatest debt of all is to those who are wounded or have fallen in combat. Those who so valiantly and selflessly volunteer to defend us and our allies around the world, and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, must never be forgotten.”
Jackson’s voice broke again, but this time he kept talking.
“It’s through the efforts of organizations like the Wounded Warrior Project that we ensure they never are.”
The crowd went ballistic. It sounded like a rock concert. I stared at Jackson on the stage, not realizing there were tears on my cheeks until I brushed my fingers across my face and they came away wet.
Jackson said, “Coming up next we’re going to start the auction. I’m sure you’ll all be very generous to help our wounded vets, right?”
More cheering.
Then he looked out across the heads of everyone in the room and spotted me standing in the doorway. Even through the distance that separated us, I saw how his eyes burned.
He said, “But before we get to that, I want to introduce you to the woman who made you all the delicious food you’ve been eating this evening. Chef, join me onstage.”
Jackson extended his hand. Three hundred heads turned to look at me.
Inconveniently, the ground didn’t open up and swallow me whole.
GINGER-ORANGE CHEESECAKE
Makes 8 servings
1½ cups graham cracker crumbs
⅓ cup butter, melted
⅓ cup white sugar
32 ounces cream cheese, softened
⅔ cup white sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
1 cup sour cream, divided
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
4 eggs
2 cups clementine wedges
½ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger
Preparation
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix graham cracker crumbs, butter, and ⅓ cup sugar together. Press on bottom of 9² x 3² springform pan and just enough up sides to seal bottom.