* * *

Major shut his office door before answering the phone. “Major O’Hara, here.”

“Where are you?” His mother’s voice was shrill and sharp.

“I told you five times today already that I have to work tonight, Ma.” His jaw ached from grinding his teeth a little harder every time she’d called tonight.

“But it’s Wednesday night. You always come on Wednesday night.”

“I know, but as I already explained, I have to work tonight. I’ll be out there tomorrow night. It’s just one day, Ma.” Lord, please help her understand so that I can get through this evening without any more interruptions. “Isn’t this the night that the chef teaches cooking lessons? Don’t you usually do that before I come?”

“I don’t want to do that. I want to see you.”

“Then why don’t you put on a John Wayne movie. What about Without Reservations or The Quiet Man?”

“I don’t want to watch John Wayne. I want you to come like you’re supposed to.”

Frustration throbbed behind his eyes. “I can’t come, Ma. I have to get off the phone now. I have to work tonight. But I will see you tomorrow, okay? So don’t call again tonight unless it’s an emergency.”

The line clicked and went dead. He closed the cell phone and pressed his forehead and nose against his desktop. “God, I don’t know how much more of this I can deal with.”

But he didn’t have time to wallow in his problem. He dropped the cell phone in his pants pocket and returned to the kitchen, allowing the controlled chaos to calm his frazzled nerves.

Plating the main course and sides continued apace. He stepped in and assisted where necessary when garnishes didn’t suit his taste or when a plate was unnecessarily messy. But he had a good team of well-trained and -educated chefs and cooks, so not much coaching was required.

Fifteen minutes after service began, servers returned with trays stacked with mostly empty salad plates. As soon as the servers divested themselves of the empties, they reviewed the lists of requested meals for their assigned tables and worked with the kitchen staff to get the appropriate dishes. Thankfully, Meredith had managed to convince Mrs. Warner that everyone should have the same side dishes—roasted baby veggies and garden risotto—instead of giving guests a choice there, too.

More than half of the mains had gone out when Major’s phone started ringing again. He almost ignored it. But knowing his mother, she’d just keep calling until he answered. He couldn’t step away from the kitchen right now, though.

“Major O’Hara.” He inspected the dishes on a tray and nodded his approval.

“Mr. O’Hara, this is Gideon Thibodeaux, facility director of Beausoleil Pointe Center. I’m calling regarding your mother.”

A wave of nausea struck so forcefully, Major wavered. “What’s she done now?”

“She had an accident and started a little fire in the kitchen.”

Horrible memories and visions from his childhood assailed him. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“No one but her. She has at least second- and possibly third-degree burns on both arms. We’ve called for an ambulance to take her to the emergency room. I suggest you meet her there instead of trying to come all the way out here.”

Major pressed his thumb and fingers to the outside corners of his eyes. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He closed the phone and released a heated, angry breath.

“Boss, is everything okay?” Steven approached with trepidation in his steps.

“I’ve had a ... situation come up. I have to go to the emergency room. I need you to take over and make sure that desserts get served right at eight o’clock. Jana knows, but because of the schedule with the auction, it can’t be any later than eight, even if some of the guests aren’t finished with mains yet. Okay?”

“Yes, Chef.” But Steven’s brow remained furrowed.

Major didn’t have time to stay and try to alleviate his sous chef ’s concerns. He grabbed his keys from his office and dashed out of the kitchen, hitting the call button for the freight elevator.

No, he couldn’t leave without telling Meredith. But what would he tell her? He tapped the talk button on the earpiece he’d forgotten to take off. “Meredith, I need to see you in the service corridor, please.”

“I’ll be there in a second.”

Many seconds later—but not long enough—the perfect vision that was Meredith materialized in the hallway, worry written all over her face. “What’s up?”

“I ... I have to leave. I have to go to the hospital.”

Her eyes widened, and shock replaced the worry. She reached over and touched his arm. “Are you okay? Do you need someone to drive you?”

“No. It’s not—” He swallowed convulsively and pulled away from her, though it was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done in his life. “I have to go. Steven knows what needs to be done. I’ll try to make it back here if I can.” The freight elevator arrived. “I’m sorry.”

The last glimpse he got of Meredith before the doors closed was of a woman who was both upset and confused by his actions.

He braced his forearms against the elevator wall and rested his head against his fists. “God, why does my mother have to ruin everything? She’s done it all my life, and she’s doing it again.”

The fire had been no accident. It was her way of punishing him. She’d always been fascinated by flames but had started setting fires just for the joy of it when he was in junior high. Whenever he did something she didn’t like or forced her to take her meds, she started fires. He’d tried to make it hard on her—getting rid of all matches and lighters. But she always got more.

He’d been pulled out of class when he was fifteen, a sophomore in high school, after she’d set a fire that quickly got out of control, destroyed their apartment, and damaged several adjoining units. Fortunately, no one had been hurt—that time. The state had committed her for thirty days, and Major had been sent to live with a foster family. A foster family who owned a restaurant. He continued to work for them even after he went back to live with his mom.

The fire she’d set eight years ago that led to his returning from New York had severely injured several other residents of the apartment complex.

Maybe it was time to discuss with her doctor a change in her medication levels, especially since it seemed as if her episodes were becoming more frequent. Either that, or it was time to look into having her committed to a full-time nursing facility.

He stopped halfway across the garage to Kirby. If he had her committed, it would mean he’d finally given up on her. And even with as much anger as he had toward her at this very moment, he wasn’t sure he was ready to do that.

But he sure wasn’t going to be able to forgive her anytime soon.

The tires squealed when he pulled out of the garage. He turned off the southern gospel music he’d been listening to on his way to work. But not before it reminded him what he’d been thinking—dreaming—about on the drive: the restaurant.

His head spun. At a restaurant, he’d never be able to walk away from a dinner service the way he’d just walked away from the banquet. And if his mother did this based on his missing one night’s visit with her, what would she do when he wouldn’t have time for weeks or months at a stretch to go out to visit her?

He shook with impotent rage. He’d already given up everything for her—his childhood, New York ... and Meredith. And would Ma ever appreciate it? No. Of course not. He refused to give up his dream of opening a restaurant.

He trudged into the emergency room lobby and went straight to the information desk.

The woman in khakis and a pink sweater looked up over the rim of bejeweled reading glasses. “How can I help you, Mr. O’Hara?”

He frowned at her use of his name. She smiled and pointed at his left shoulder; he looked down and read his name, upside-down, on his coat.

“My mother, Beverly O’Hara, was being brought here by ambulance from Beausoleil Pointe Center.” He unbuttoned the jacket.

“Let me call back to the nurses’ station and see if she’s ready for visitors. In the meantime, you can have a seat there.” She pointed behind him.

“Yeah, I know the drill. Thanks.” He slumped into one of the stiff upholstered chairs, his back to the few other people in the waiting room.

A few minutes later, the admissions nurse called him over to her window to answer the standard payment and insurance questions.

He turned at the sound of rubber soles squeaking on the tile floor. A vaguely familiar young man ran to the information desk. “I need to see Beverly O’Hara.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No—I’m from the center. I was there—it’s my fault she got hurt, you see, and I need to make sure she’s going to be okay.”

Major turned to the admissions nurse. “Do you need anything else from me?”

“No, sir, I think I’ve got everything.”

“Thanks.” He went back over to the information desk. “Excuse me. You said you’re from the Pointe?”

The younger man turned. “I’m Patrick....” His eyes flickered down to Major’s coat. “Oh, Mr.—I mean, Chef O’Hara. I am so sorry about what happened to your mother. It was all my fault. I only turned my back for a second....”

Major led him over to a semisecluded area of the waiting room and forced him to sit with a hand on his shoulder. “Start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”

“She came in late, after the cooking class had started. She comes every week and has always done very well—owing to you, I’m sure.”

“Go on.” Major crossed his arms, displeased with the kid’s attempt at flattery.

“Well, I asked her if she would remove a pot from the stove. I warned her it would be hot and to use a towel wrapped around the handle to move it. But I forgot to tell her to turn the burner off first. She must have dragged the tail of the towel in the flame. That’s all I can figure.”

“But how did it burn both of her arms?”

“Oh, that wasn’t what burned her. She jumped back and the pasta water splashed all over her.”

“I see.” Major rubbed his eyes. Guilty sympathy chiseled away his anger. Burns from liquid could be almost as bad as from oil or open flame. He should know—he’d suffered his share of them.

“O’Hara family?”

He looked over at the nurse standing in the door that led back to the ER.

“May I come with you?” Patrick stood with him. “I want to apologize to her.”

“Sure.” A short corridor connected the lobby to the actual emergency room facility. As soon as they passed through the door on the other end, he could hear his mother’s shrill cries.

All anger toward her forgotten, Major sped up and bypassed the nurse the last few yards to the room where he could hear her.

“Ma?” He pushed the privacy curtain aside. Two orderlies were trying to hold her shoulders down on the bed, while a nurse held a syringe, trying to give her a shot in her upper arm.

“Major, make them stop!” For someone so frail looking, she sure was strong. His throat tightened. No matter what she’d done, she was his mother. For that reason alone, she deserved his respect and love.

He stepped over and pulled the orderly closest to him away, then looked at the one on the other side and nodded. “I’m here, now, Ma.”

Huge crystalline tears coursed down her cheeks. “It hurts.”

“I know it does. But they’re trying to make it better. Let the nurse give you a shot, and it won’t hurt as much anymore.” He looked around and found a box of tissues on the counter beside the small sink. He grabbed several and dried his mother’s face, which was turned away from the nurse with the needle.

“What is that?” He nodded toward the syringe.

“Demerol—a pain killer.”

A man in a suit entered the room. “It’s all right, Mr. O’Hara. I’ve already briefed them on your mother’s condition and the medications she’s on.” He nodded at the nurse, who couldn’t mask the fear in her eyes when she approached and gave the shot.

Major continued wiping at his mother’s tears. “And you are?” He glanced over his shoulder at the man.

“I’m Gideon Thibodeaux.”

“I don’t know him, Danny.” Ma’s blue eyes opened and showed that the pain medication was already taking effect.

Major had never met BPC’s new director. “He’s the manager at the Pointe, Ma.”

“Patrick, may I speak with you outside?” Mr. Thibodeaux’s grave expression told Major that Patrick might no longer be employed by the center in a few minutes.