She stared at me like I’d just spoken a language she didn’t know. From the kitchen doorway, I could feel Delphine watching us with the kind of attention that missed nothing.
“What do you need?” I asked, my voice lower now, just for her.
Truth shook her head. “I don’t know. Nothing helps. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t even think straight. The nausea just—” She stopped, her hand moving in a helpless gesture. “It’s constant.”
“You eating anything at all?”
“Not really. I had some homemade chicken soup yesterday that stayed down, but everything else just—” She made a face. “I can’t even look at food without wanting to throw up.”
I pulled out my phone.
“What are you doing?” Truth asked.
I didn’t answer. Just pulled up my contacts and hit the number for the concierge service I kept on retainer for situations exactly like this—situations where money could solve a problem faster than anything else.
The line picked up on the second ring. “Mr. Landry. How can we assist you today?”
“I need a chef,” I said, my eyes still on Truth. “Someone who specializes in pregnancy nutrition. Someone who can work with severe morning sickness and food aversions. I need them at—” I glanced at Delphine. She rattled off the address without me having to ask. “—this address. Today. Within two hours.”
“Of course, Mr. Landry. We’ll have someone there within ninety minutes. Will you need them for one meal or ongoing service?”
“Ongoing. At least through the first trimester. Maybe longer depending on how things go.”
“Understood. We’ll send our best.”
I hung up.
Truth was staring at me. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” I said, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “And I did.”
“Amai—”
“You want some coffee, Mr. Landry?” Delphine’s voice cut through whatever Truth was about to say. She was standing in the kitchen doorway now, arms crossed, that same knowing look on her face.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, grateful for the interruption. “Thank you. And call me Amai.”
“You take it black or you need cream and sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
She disappeared back into the kitchen. I heard the sound of a mug being pulled from a cabinet, the coffee pot being lifted from the burner. Truth was still staring at me like I’d just rearranged her entire understanding of reality.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, I did.”
“The contract doesn’t say?—”
“Fuck the contract.” The words came out harder than I meant them to. I softened my voice. “You’re carrying my child, and you can’t eat. That’s not something I’m going to ignore just because a piece of paper doesn’t explicitly require me to care.”
Her eyes went bright. Not quite tears, but close.
Delphine came back with the coffee—Community Coffee in a chipped LSU mug, the smell of chicory rising with the steam. She handed it to me, and I took it, the ceramic warm against my palms. I sipped it. Strong, bitter, perfect. The kind of coffee that had been brewed the same way in New Orleans kitchens for generations.
“Thank you,” I said.
Delphine nodded and then, instead of going back to the kitchen, she sat in the recliner across from us. The chair was old, the fabric worn smooth in places, but she settled into it like a queen taking her throne. She picked up a glass of something amber from the side table—probably bourbon, maybe whiskey—and took a slow sip, her eyes moving between me and Truth with the kind of assessment that made me feel like I was being studied.
