The curvy, attractive Indian woman, wearing a deep green cotton top that set off her amber-brown eyes and tan skin remained seated adjacent to her husband. She surveyed me quietly. Her direct stare made me feel as if she could see all my sins.
I just stuck out my hand. “Mrs. Logan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
A warm smile lit her face, and she took my hand in both of hers. “It is good to meet a friend of Max’s.”
The truth was, I wasn’t used to such an open welcome. Yeah, people received me because of who I was and what they could get. But, here, in this house, Ray’s family didn’t treat me differently, only with friendly acceptance.
“Jack, I’m so glad you came.” Ila smiled, setting her fork down and picking up a glass of water.
“Me, too,” I said. “Got held up at work for a while but made it.” However, I was aware that Ray wasn’t here. My stomach knotted. Was she okay? Dammit, who did I ask?
“Ray’s not feeling well”—Maya Logan answered my unspoken question—“she’s sleeping.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I had to ask, wishing I could see her for myself, see that she was okay. Now, I had to cool my heels and wait.
“She has a headache.” Mr. Logan said, tone cool—hell, his penetrating stare would make anyone quake in their boots. But I was too worried about Ray. It was no damn headache she suffered. Later, after lunch, I’d ask Ila if I could see Ray because Max would sure as hell tell me to leave her alone.
“S…sit down, Jack.” Mrs. Logan slurred a little as she waved me to the chair next to her. “Have lunch with us.”
I frowned. No, she was nothing like my mother. There wasn’t any liquor on the dining table. Only then did I realize she must be sick. I wasn’t sure what it was, and yet, she smiled.
“Thank you.” I loosened my tie, uncuffed, and rolled back my shirtsleeves.
“There’s spicy chicken, creamy shrimp, pasta, and vegs. Help yourself.” Ila waved at the table. Max claimed his seat next to her again.
As I served myself some of the food, Mrs. Logan said, “You are related to Margo Blackstone, yes?”
Damn tabloids. I wished I could say no. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gave a little nod, and I hoped she didn’t paint me with the same damn brush of scheming coldness that was my grandmother.
“I saw you with her in the papers. She donated a new wing for the city hospital.”
“Yes.” That was Grandmother, ever the opportunistic philanthropist for what she considered worthy causes.
“Did the caterers get back to you about the menu for the wedding?” Sean Logan asked Ila.
Thankfully, the conversation shifted to the wedding, with no more questions about my dysfunctional family.
“Yes, Dad, we finalized it,” she said.
He leaned his forearms on the table, expression determined. “If you need help—”
“Dad—” She sighed. “Stop worrying. We have it under control, I swear.”
“She actually does, Sean,” Max said then, sliding his arm over the back of her chair.
After a moment, the father nodded.
“Hard to believe you’ll be married in three weeks,” Mrs. Logan added.
“I can’t wait.” Max winked at Ila. Red seeped beneath her tan skin, making Max laugh.
I’d never seen my friend so relaxed and happy. Guess meeting Ila and finally talking to his old man had helped to clear the air over his mother’s fatal accident, which Max had blamed himself for.
“Are you going to tell me where we are going for our honeymoon?” Ila set her napkin down, while I devoured some damn delicious food.
“No.”
