Chapter Eighteen
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Maggie
It’s completely possible for good things to come from bad experiences.
Never thought I’d say this, but thank goodness for Todd Dungworth. Ever since that train wreck of a Friday night, Cash and Luc have been texting me daily. Nothing grave or grandiose. Just a few sentences to ask how the bar’s doing, or to tell me what they’ve accomplished on Cash’s house. Enough of an opening that I was able to invite them over tonight without it seeming like I’m scheming.
Which I totally am.
I might not know what the heck to do about Cash. But Luc? I’m going to see him happy and settled if it’s the last thing I do.
“Dat roux smells ready,cher.”
When I asked Jean-Pierre to join the group of guests for tonight’s dinner party—which will include Eva andLauren.See? Scheming—he not only agreed, but also declared he would come early, sit at my kitchen table, and drink my wine while I did all the work.
He wasn’t kidding.
“Unless you want to get up and help me, then mind your own biscuits.” I frown at him over my shoulder.
“Just sayin’.” He takes a leisurely sip of wine.
As much as I hate to admit when he’s right, he’s right. I turn down the fire under the mixture of butter and flour and add the onions, bell pepper, celery, and spices to the pan.
I’m no chef. But I can whip up a pretty decent crawfish étouffée when I set my mind to it. Add that to some rice with fried okra on the side and then finish it all off with a flambéed bananas foster—Jean-Pierre’s favorite—and voilà! Dinner is served.
Checking the clock on the microwave, I see I have ten minutes before my guests arrive. Perfect. The crawfish will be done by then. Now, to switch from cooking music, which is toe-tapping jazz, to dinner music, which is soft, smoky blues.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll through my music library until I find the playlist I’m looking for, a compilation of artists like Magic Slim & the Teardrops and Buddy Guy. Hitting play, I smile when the first sweet, twanging guitar chords slip from the Bose speaker sitting on my windowsill.
“Mmm.” Jean-Pierre hums his approval and then sings the first line to “How Unlucky Can One Man Be.”
“Will you set the table?” I ask him. Then, I make kissy noises at Yard, who is sitting beside me, patiently waiting for any morsel I might drop.
Jean-Pierre sighs dramatically. “If I must.” As he lays out the napkins and flatware, he asks, “So who you hopin’ he chooses?”
“What do you mean?” I dump the raw crawfish tails into the pan and check to see how the rice is coming along.
“Luc. I know ya said you saw Lauren makin’ eyes at him at Jelly Bean’s second line, but what about Eva?She’dbe a good match, no? Both of dem are so pretty. Imagine da babies dey would make.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It would be complicated with Eva. What if theydidhit it off, and then things didn’t work out between them? Would they try to make me choose sides? I couldn’t do that. I love them both. And it wouldkillme if they ever hurt each other.”
“Hmm.” He’s finished setting the table and has resumed his seat as well as his wine consumption. “And Cash?”
“What about him?” I fluff the rice with a fork and turn off the burner beneath it.
“He got a drinkin’ problem, dat one.”
“He’s got aheadinjury that he medicates with whiskey.” I’m quick to come to Cash’s defense. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Jean-Pierre arches an eyebrow.
I turn, hands on my hips. “Yes.One requires a lifetime of AA meetings and working The Steps, and the other will right itself once his brain heals and he’s not dealing with so much pain.”
That’s what I’ve been telling myself anyway. But when I say it out loud, it sounds ridiculous.
“Besides,” I add, twisting back to stir the étouffée, “Luc and I have already decided we’re going with him to his next doctor’s appointment. I want to hear about his condition with my own two ears. I think he might need a second opinion.”
