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.”
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.”