Kaye Dacus - Menu for Romance

Through the overwhelming pressure in his chest, Major caught his breath. “Wait.”

Forbes stopped, arms crossed. “Well?”

“You—you’re right. I am embarrassed by my mother. I always have been. But you don’t understand what it was like growing up with a mom who might throw a tantrum in the middle of Sears with everyone watching. You don’t know what it’s like to be called out of Algebra class and told that your mother set fire to your apartment and she’s being taken to the state mental hospital and you’re being put into foster care. You don’t know what it’s been like to have every woman you’ve ever dated break up with you as soon as they find out about your mom because they’re too scared to listen to the facts and find out that I’m not going to be like her.”

Forbes came back around the bed and sat down.

“You don’t know what it’s like to give up everything—football, New York, the restaurant, Meredith—because she’s had another breakdown, set another fire, had another episode. I’ve had to live with that my whole life, have had to deal with it with no help from anyone else for thirty-eight years. And I’m tired of it.”

As quickly as his anger had flared, it waned. “But mostly, I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Why?”

“Because ever since I moved back here from New York, every time something happens with her, it makes me wish she weren’t around.” His voice cracked, and he tried to clear the pressure out of his throat. “Can you imagine that? My mother, who raised me by herself, who loves me, who did the best she could. And I wish she didn’t exist, because I feel like she’s ruining my life.”

“How do you think your life would be better if she didn’t exist?”

Major closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I don’t know.... Maybe I’d still be in New York, executive chef in a high-end restaurant in Manhattan.”

“Why did you go to New York in the first place?”

He looked at his friend, wondering if he’d really forgotten. “For culinary school.”

Forbes stood up again and began pacing the length of the bed. “What made you decide to go to culinary school?”

“I’d been working in food service since I was fifteen.” He now knew what a witness on the stand felt like under Forbes’s cross-examination.

“You were fifteen?” Forbes paused and raised his brows.

“Yes—you know this already.”

“What happened when you were fifteen that led you to taking a job in a kitchen?” The attorney resumed pacing.

“I—” Major clamped his mouth shut.

Forbes stopped and turned to look at him again, his gaze piercing.

Frustration pushed out a big sigh. “The foster family I was placed with when Ma was put into the state institution owned a restaurant, and everyone in the family pitched in.”

“But when you went back to living with your mom, you kept working at the restaurant?”

“I needed some kind of stability. Some assurance I could take care of myself.” He was starting to see the point of Forbes’s probing. He never would have thought of working in a restaurant if he hadn’t lived with that foster family for a month. He wouldn’t have fallen in love with the industry, wouldn’t have gone to work for Maggie Babineaux in her catering business.

“So you admit that it is because of your mother that you entered the food service industry.”

“Yes. I’ll admit that.”

Switching out of lawyer mode, Forbes flopped back into the chair. “And you got to go to college, where you played football until you injured your back, if I recall, not because of your mother.”

Okay, yes, he’d used his mother as an excuse as to why he’d had to give up playing. “Yes. I got to do that.”

“And you lived in New York for how long?”

“Two years in Hyde Park for culinary school and six years in Manhattan.”

“How often did you come back to visit during those eight years?”

Major swallowed hard. “A couple of times—but I was working in restaurants, trying to build my credentials.”

“And your mother was doing what during that time?”

This exercise in chastisement was starting to chafe. “Living here alone, doing her best to take care of herself so I could go off and do what I wanted to do.”

“How were things going for you in New York?” Forbes looked smugly superior.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I was struggling to make ends meet, living in a rundown apartment with three other guys, working at least two jobs, and making myself sick because I never slept.”

“And since you’ve been back here?”

Major wanted to punch his friend in the face but couldn’t reach that far. “I was hired by your parents to be the executive chef and manager of the catering division of Boudreaux-Guidry Enterprises.” He crossed his arms—then wished he hadn’t when he elbowed his own cracked ribs. “I see what you’re getting at. If it hadn’t been for my mother, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

“Then don’t you think it’s time you do what the Bible says?”

Wracking his brain, Major couldn’t easily come up with whatever Forbes was referencing. “Ask her forgiveness?”

“That’s part of it. I’m talking about honoring your mother.”

Major nodded. “Tomorrow when we get out of here, I want you to take me to BPC. I’ve got a lot of years of dishonoring her to make up for.”

“You sure you got it?”

Major glared at his friend but quickly returned his focus to keeping his balance on his right foot while turning to lower himself into the wheelchair.

The wheelchair was bad enough, but not being able to maneuver himself around in it because of his stupid cracked ribs made his embarrassment complete.

Forbes closed the door of the sleek black Jaguar, then pushed Major across the parking lot and in through the sliding glass doors of Beausoleil Pointe Center. Major directed him to the elevators then through the halls to his mother’s apartment. Forbes reached to knock on the door, but Major caught his wrist.

“I can knock for myself, thank you very much.”

“No need to get tetchy.”

“No need to laugh at me.” The good mood Major had woken up with at the thought of being released from the hospital hadn’t lasted long when he realized how much he wasn’t going to be able to do for himself for quite some time to come.

“So are you going to knock?” Amusement laced Forbes’s voice.

Major glared at him then leaned forward to knock, ignoring the shooting pain the movement caused in his chest and leg.

A few seconds later, the door flew open. “Danny!” Ma put her hands on his cheeks and pulled his head forward to kiss the top of it, bumping his heavily splinted and bandaged leg in the process.

He drew his breath in through clenched teeth. “Careful, Ma.”

“We’ve been waiting for you.” She squeezed out the door around him and pushed Forbes away. She grunted with the effort of getting the chair started on the carpet, but once rolling, she had an easier time.

“We?”

“The girls and me. We’re having lunch on the terrace. Everyone’s been talking about you, and no one wanted to start without you.” She stopped at the door to the back stairwell. “Oh. Guess we can’t go down that way.”

Forbes coughed.

Major glanced over his shoulder, trying to put as much warning in his expression as he could.

“Well, it looks like you’re in very capable hands. So, I’ll just wait for you to call me when you’re ready for me to come back and pick you up, shall I?” Forbes twirled his keys on his index finger.

“Yeah, yeah. Ooph, easy there, Ma.” Major pressed his hand to his ribs, which had just hit the side of the chair when his mother jerked it around with strength he didn’t know she possessed. He glared at Forbes as Ma pushed the wheelchair past him. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to go.”

Whistling, Forbes waved. “Bye, Mrs. O’Hara. It was good to see you again.”

“Uh-huh.” Ma didn’t turn, just kept pushing Major toward the elevators. The top of Forbes’s head hadn’t disappeared down the main front staircase before she said, “I don’t like him, Danny.”

“Forbes? He’s my best friend, Ma.”

“He’s too ... pretty. He’s like Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday. You look at him, and you know he’s up to no good.”

Major laughed. “He’s one of the best guys I know. I trust him with my life.” Even though he hadn’t always trusted him with the whole truth of everything going on in his life.

“Well, don’t trust him to throw him.”

Now Major was the one who coughed to cover a laugh.

Ma whacked him between the shoulders. “You’re not coming down with something are you? You can’t be here if you’re sick.”

“Ow. I’m not sick, Ma.”

“You know that most people come out of the hospital sicker than they were when they went in? I saw a program about that on TV. How people pick up all kinds of germs in the hospital when they’re suspectable.”

“Susceptible.”

“You could have picked up meningitis or strep or herpes and not even know it until you keel over and die.” She shoved the wheelchair out of the elevator and through the main receiving room.

“Thanks for those cheerful thoughts, Ma.” He held his hands out to try to keep his leg from bumping chairs, plants, tables, the corner of the wall as they entered the back hallway.... The pain in his ribs to wheel himself around might be worth saving himself the stress of his mother’s driving skills.

One of the staffers met them at the door to the flagstone terrace. “You should have called one of us, Mrs. O’Hara. You shouldn’t be pushing this by yourself.” The young woman took over and pushed Major behind his mother toward one of the farthest-away tables.

He loved being referred to as this, as if he were nothing more than a roasted turkey or sack of flour.

Ma’s card-playing friends all came over to examine the cuts and bruises on Major’s face, to poke at the ACE bandages covering the lower portion of his left leg, and to beg him to lift his T-shirt to show them the wrapping around his chest. Okay. Being called this wasn’t so bad, comparatively.

The chicken salad on croissants, fruit, and potato salad were a bit cliché for a springtime alfresco meal; but after the bland food at the hospital for the past two days, nothing had tasted better to him in a long time.

After everyone finished eating and dispersed to different activities, Ma pushed him over to a separate, somewhat secluded area of the patio, partially shaded by a pergola and magnolia trees at three corners. With a fireplace and the privacy the surrounding raised planters gave it from the terrace, he could almost pretend they were at a park instead of an assisted-living facility for the psychologically challenged.

Ma sat at one of the two small tables and fanned herself with a lace hankie. He flashed back to his childhood. For as long as he could remember, she’d always carried a handkerchief instead of disposable tissues. It was more ladylike to use a hankie than a piece of flimsy paper, she’d explained to him when he’d asked about it at age eleven.

“How did you do it all those years?” He manipulated the wheels of the chair until he faced her squarely.

“Do what, Danny?”

“Raise me. Put up with me. Support us. Hold yourself together until I was old enough to take care of both of us.” Emotion shredded his voice into hoarse shards.

She shrugged. “I just had to. You were a little boy.” She patted her forehead with her fingertips. “I had to think about things because you couldn’t do it and because I knew they’d take you away from me. That was the worst time, when they took you away from me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to set the fire, Danny. I didn’t mean to.”

He stroked her arm until she started to calm down. “I know you didn’t. You couldn’t help it. Flame has always fascinated you. Like a moth.” He grinned. “You can’t stay away from it.”

“But I was supposed to because you could be hurt in a fire, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Of course not. You’ve always protected me, Ma. And I’ve never told you how much that means to me. How much I love you for that.”

“Fssh.” She waved her hand. “You tell me you love me all the time.”

“I may say the words, but I don’t always show it. I’m sorry I left you on your own when I went to New York, that I didn’t make more of an effort to get back down here and see you.”

She pushed wisps of white hair back from her cheek. “You were doing important work. That’s what I told all my friends at my jobs I had while you were gone. You were in New York becoming a famous chef. They were all jealous of me because my son was a famous chef in Manhattan and none of their children ever did anything important like that.”