BIANCA
It was a bracing fifty-eight degrees, the sky a clear, brilliant blue above our heads. Eeny stood to my left, crying softly into a handkerchief. Jackson was to my right, stony as the inside of my heart.
The church service was beautiful, attended by almost four hundred people. A gospel choir raised the rafters in song. Hoyt arranged for a jazz funeral procession from Saint Augustine’s to the cemetery. Two dozen musicians in black caps and white dress shirts slowly led the mourners on foot through the streets of New Orleans to the sound of hymns played on trumpets, drums, saxophones, and clarinets. At the grave site there were so many flower arrangements the bees came out in force, adding a gentle hum to underscore the priest’s final blessing of farewell.
Then Mama’s casket was lowered into the ground, and it was done.
Back at the house, the wake lasted for an eternity. Finally, well after nightfall, the house emptied, and I was left alone with my grief and a grim fiancé who looked exactly as wrecked as I felt.
His rough black beard was back. His hair had obviously only been finger combed. He was restless and edgy, a dark thundercloud of mood over his head. Though he wore a suit and tie, he seemed more of the Beast than I’d ever seen him.
“Let’s sit down,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the sofa. “We need to talk.”
Surprised, I sat and folded my hands in my lap while I waited for him to sit, too. That moment never came. He stood looking at the floor, his hands hanging loose at his sides and slightly trembling.
“Jackson?”
He glanced up at me. His eyes were so dark. Something about the look in them made my skin crawl.
Spooked, I said, “What is it?”
He moistened his lips. From the inside pocket of his coat he slowly withdrew a set of folded papers. “We don’t have to draw this out any longer than necessary. I wanted to wait until after . . .”
He swallowed, moistened his lips again, then started anew. “I knew you had so much on your plate. I wanted to wait until after the funeral to give you this.”
He held out the papers. “It’s my copy of our contract.”
Taking the papers, I furrowed my brow in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Jackson dragged a hand through his hair. He loosened his tie, then went to stand at the front window and gazed out at the night like he was no longer holding out hope of finding something he’d lost. His voice low and rough, he asked, “You didn’t think I’d force you to go through with it now, did you?”
When I was silent, stunned because I thought I understood what he meant, he turned to me with a look so anguished it made my heart skip a beat. “Please tell me you don’t think I’m the kind of man who would do that.”
I slowly rose. The papers shook like mad in my hands. “We made an agreement,” I said hoarsely, not recognizing my own voice. “Your inheritance—”
“It hasn’t been about my inheritance for me for a while now, Bianca,” he interrupted harshly, his eyes glittering. “Honestly, I’m not sure it ever was.”
It hung there between us, breathtakingly raw. I whispered, “Jax.”
Something in my expression caused him visible pain. He turned away, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and bowed his head. “I’ll have all your things brought back here. I’m sorry you had to let go of your house. The timing was just”—his laugh was hollow—“shit.”
I wanted to say something—anything—but words wouldn’t come. Jackson was letting me out of our deal. I didn’t have to marry him.
He was going to lose everything.
Finally I came to my senses. A deal was a deal after all, and I wasn’t about to renege on my end of the bargain, no matter what circumstances had changed. “I can’t let you do that,” I said, and dropped the papers on the coffee table. They landed with a dull slap that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
Jackson turned from the window. He looked at the papers, then at my face. Then he crossed the room in a few long strides and picked up the contract. He ripped it in half with one abrupt, savage motion. “Don’t you get it? You’re not obligated to me anymore! You’re free! Go live your life!”
His voice was choked with emotion. His eyes were wild like I’d never seen them. I put my hand over my thundering heart.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, instantly contrite, taking a step back. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I’m an asshole. I know this is the worst day of your life. I didn’t mean to—I can’t—”
He cursed again, whirling away, and headed for the front door. “Keep the ring,” he said over his shoulder. “Hock it. Throw it away. Whatever you want. I’ll send all your things tomorrow. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
He opened the door and was gone before I could even decide if the words forming on my lips were “Thank you” or “Don’t go.”
The screen door slammed shut behind him.
True to his word, Jackson had all my things delivered to Mama’s house the next day in the same boxes I’d packed them into a lifetime ago. I spent a few days in a weird kind of limbo, puttering around aimlessly, trying to decide if I wanted to sell the house or keep it, before I gave up pressuring myself to make any big decisions and retired to the sofa in the front parlor, where I stayed for several more days, rising only to scrounge from the casseroles and leftovers crammed in the fridge.
I didn’t allow myself to think about Jackson. There was a dangerous ache under my breastbone when I got too close to even picturing his face, so I shoved the memory of him and our short, magical time at Moonstar Ranch down into a dark corner of my heart and concentrated on the business of being depressed.
Eeny didn’t let that continue long before barging through the front door and scolding me to within an inch of my life.
“Get off your behind, girl, and get back to work! Who do you think you’re honorin’ with all this mopin’ around? Because it sure ain’t your mama! She’d be scandalized if she could see you right now, lyin’ there wallowin’ like a pig in shit!”
Eeny loomed over me, hands propped on her hips, scowling down at the pathetic picture I made in my dirty pajamas and unwashed hair on the couch.
I severely regretted giving her a key.
“You’re right,” I said tonelessly, staring at the ceiling. “I know you’re right.”
“Then get your ass in gear and get up!” She gave the sofa a frustrated little kick, jostling me.
“I’m in mourning. You shouldn’t curse at people in mourning.”
She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re in danger of gettin’ on my bad side, boo.”
She didn’t have to say more than that. The last person who got on her bad side ended up with four slashed tires on his car, a headless rooster on his doorstep, and a strange, persistent rash.
“I’m up,” I grumbled, rousing. “Terrorist.”
“You’re the terrorist, child. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re so frightenin’ I’d hire you to haunt a house! You’re so scary lookin’ you’d make a freight train take a dirt road! You look so bad—”
“I get it, I get it,” I said, stumbling to my feet. “I look like crap.”
Eeny nodded as if I’d said something remarkably intelligent for once. “Like you fell out the ugly tree and hit every damn branch on the way down.”
I sighed heavily. Eeny grimaced and waved an offended hand in front of her face.
“Lawd! That breath of yours is nuclear, girl! Can’t believe it hasn’t melted the lips right off your face.”
From somewhere deep inside me emerged a grudging chuckle, which made Eeny smile and nod her head.
“That’s better. Now go take a shower and put on some clean clothes. We’re goin’ to the restaurant. You got people to feed, and I miss that ornery ol’ billy goat Hoyt more than I ever woulda guessed. Don’t gimme that stink eye!” she snapped when I raised my brows. “And if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll mash your potatoes!”
“My lips are sealed.”
I smiled for the first time in days as I headed off to the bathroom to wash away a week’s worth of neglect. I stopped when I heard my cell phone ring from the kitchen counter. I didn’t recognize the number when I picked up.
“Miss Hardwick, it’s Michael Roth.”
He was the attorney I’d hired to review my contract with Jackson. “How can I help you, Mr. Roth?”
“I received a copy of the trust documents from Mr. Boudreaux’s attorney.”
“Oh. Yes, um, well Mr. Boudreaux and I . . . the contract you reviewed . . .” I sighed. “Mr. Boudreaux doesn’t want to move forward with the marriage, so the contract is void at this point.”
The attorney’s pause was so loaded I imagined the phone gained weight in my hand. He said, “But the trust isn’t.”
I yawned, scratching my head. “Hmm?”
“Miss Hardwick, did you seek legal counsel before signing the trust documents?”
Oh dear. There was an accusation in his tone. I wasn’t in the state of mind to deal with a peeved attorney. “Well . . . no,” I admitted sheepishly. “The whole thing was a little rushed—”
“The trust isn’t linked in any way to the marriage contract,” he interrupted impatiently.
I rubbed my eyes with my fist, starting to get irritated with the conversation. “Mr. Roth, you’ll have to speak English. I haven’t had my coffee yet. What’re you saying?”
Amusement warmed his voice. “I’m saying Mr. Boudreaux gifted you a million dollars.”
I frowned. This didn’t make any sense. Maybe I was understanding him wrong. “No, that can’t be right. The trust is part of the marriage contract. The two go together. Without a marriage, there’s no money.”
Mr. Roth started to speak slowly and patiently, as you would to a child or someone mentally impaired. “There is no mention of establishing a trust in the marriage contract, Miss Hardwick. As far as the contract is concerned, the trust doesn’t exist. There was only a stipulation that a payment in the amount of one million dollars would be conferred to you upon your marriage, but it never specifically spelled out how that payment would be made. This trust I’ve just reviewed”—I heard the sound of rustling paper in the background—“is ironclad. It’s irrevocable. You are the sole trustee. No one else has access to the money. That million dollars is yours, married or not.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Roth. Respectfully, you’re talking out of your behind. I know you graduated from college, because I saw the framed degree on the wall behind your desk, but you’ve got this all wrong. Jackson Boudreaux would never make such a stupid mistake.”
After a while Mr. Roth said, “I agree. He wouldn’t. It was intentional.”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Of course if you don’t believe me, I advise you to get another opinion.” He sniffed, his ego dinged by my disbelief. “But any attorney will tell you the same thing. Congratulations, Miss Hardwick. You’re a millionaire.”
I breathed, “I’m . . . whaaa . . .”
Mr. Roth kept talking, his voice a distant drone in my ear, but I heard nothing else he said. I stood in the kitchen, blank with shock, until the house phone rang and jolted me back into reality. I disconnected the call with Mr. Holt, who was still talking, and picked up the phone on the wall.
“Hardwick residence,” I said, completely disoriented.
Mr. Holt had to be wrong. He had to be. Why on earth would Jackson do a thing like that?
“Bianca,” said Trace.
His mouth turned my name into a sneer. I stiffened, going from disoriented to teed off in two seconds flat. “You’ve got some nerve calling this house!” I said, hackles rising.
He chuckled. It was an ugly sound, full of malice. “What, I can’t call to pay my respects?”
We both knew he wasn’t calling to pay his respects. He had other business on his mind, which I had no intention of listening to.
“I’m only going to tell you this one more time, Trace. Stay away from me.”
“Or what?” he snarled. “You’ll have Jackson Boudreaux buy up the whole block instead of just the one building?”
“What the heck are you talking about?” I hated myself for taking the bait but needed to know what he meant. Suddenly anything to do with Jackson was of paramount importance, even if it came from Trace’s fanged mouth.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
When I didn’t answer, he shouted, “My restaurant? The building it was going to open in suddenly getting bought up even though it wasn’t on the market? The new owner canceling my lease?”
The hairs on my arms rose in gooseflesh. My heart started to thump. Not daring to believe it, I said slowly, “Jackson bought the building where you were going to open your restaurant, and then canceled your lease?”
Trace’s laugh was hard and a little scary. “You’re a shitty actress, bumble bee,” he said bitterly. “Don’t think for a minute I don’t know who asked him to do it.”
For a moment I went totally blank. My mind was as snowy as a polar bear’s backside.
Then a hysterical laugh broke from my chest.
Jackson bought the building where Trace was going to open his restaurant and canceled the lease! Filled with glee, I cackled madly again, stamping my foot on the floor.
Eeny came in from the parlor and looked at me like she was wondering if I needed to take a nice, long vacation in a place with barred windows and padded walls.
She wasn’t the only one affected by it. Trace flipped his lid. He roared, “You’re fucking stupid!”
I hooted, positively giddy. “And you’re proof!”
Apoplectic, he sputtered, “You need me! You told me you’d always love me! ‘I will always love you’—those were your exact goddamn words!”
Then it was like something inside me was just done with him, dusted off its hands, and turned tail without another look back.
I said calmly, “I’m not Whitney Houston, you silly goose. I need you like the word knife needs the letter k. The only thing you ever gave me was dick and a headache.”
I hung up.
Eeny and I looked at each other.
“Who on earth was that?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Snake oil salesman. I told him to find the nearest tall building and go stand out on a ledge.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, leaning in to look closer. “You okay, boo?”
I stared at her as several things became clear all at once, like a light switch had been flipped on inside my brain and a thousand bulbs glowed white-hot, illuminating what had been standing there in the dark all along, waiting for me to open my eyes.
I was a damn fool. A stubborn, blind, hopeless fool.
The worst part was, it was myself I was fooling.
With wonder in my voice, I said, “Eeny. Jackson Boudreaux asked my mama for permission to marry me when he didn’t have to. He gave me a seven-carat Tiffany diamond ring when I said I wanted a simple gold band. He gave me a million dollars in cash, for nothing. And bought an entire building so a man who’d hurt me couldn’t hurt me again. And told me his deepest, darkest secrets—things he’d never told anyone before.”
Eeny blinked at me, unimpressed. “What’s your point?”
I inhaled a slow breath. My nerves tingled almost painfully, like they’d been frozen for years but were finally coming alive.
I whispered, “I think Jackson Boudreaux is in love with me.”
Eeny made a face like I was the world’s biggest moron. “Of course he’s in love with you, dummy! A blind man could see that! Stars above, don’t tell me you didn’t know?”
When I just gaped at her silently, she threw her hands in the air. “How I’m supposed to deal with this kind of ignorance I surely don’t know! Heavens to Betsy, Bianca, sometimes you can be awful dense!”
My throat raw with emotion, I said, “I thought love was supposed to be weak knees and butterflies in your stomach and a terrible longing that could never be quenched.”
Eeny shook her head, chuckled, came over and embraced me. “No, child,” she said gently, patting my back. “That’s romance. Romance is built on doubt. Love is solid. Constant. If you’re not careful, you might mistake it for bein’ boring because it’s so reliable. Love is warm and deep and comfortable, just right, so you float in it peacefully without ever being scalded or frozen, like a perfect, relaxing bubble bath.
“But it’s also fierce and strong and demands all the best parts of you, the parts that are giving and honest and true. Love makes you a better person. It makes you want to be a better person. You know it’s love when you feel comfortable just as you are, when you feel seen and understood, when you know you could tell all your darkest truths and they’d be accepted without judgement.”
Eeny pulled away and gently smoothed a hand over my hair. “Love isn’t butterflies, boo. It isn’t weak knees. It’s a pride of lions. It’s a pack of wolves. It’s ‘I’ve got your back even if it costs me my own life,’ because unlike romance that fizzles at the first sign of trouble, love will fight to the death. When it’s love, you’ll go to war to avenge even the slightest offense. And you’ll be justified.
“Because of all the marvelous and terrible things we can experience in this life, love is the only one that will last beyond it.”
A car with a bad muffler rumbled by on the street outside. I heard the distant hum of a jet plane flying somewhere far overhead. And deep, deep down inside my soul, a calm voice said yes.
“Oh God,” I blurted, my eyes going wide. “I love him, Eeny! I love Jackson Boudreaux!”
Eeny sighed deeply, tilted back her head, and beseeched the ceiling. “Honestly, Jesus, how can you burden me with such stupidity?”
“I have to call him, I’ve got to call him right now, oh Lord what is the matter with me, I’m an A-plus idiot,” I babbled, scrabbling wildly at the phone on the wall like it might launch itself into outer space to escape my insane clutches.
I punched in the number with frantic stabbing motions. I waited breathlessly for the line to connect, but his cell phone went straight to voice mail. Panicked, I called the house.
Rayford picked up with a smooth, “Good evening, Boudreaux residence.”
I began to holler incoherently. “Rayford it’s Bianca I need to speak with Jackson please put him on the phone!”
Rayford paused before answering. “Mr. Boudreaux is . . . occupied at the moment,” he said in a strange, ominous tone. “May I take a message?”
My heart pounded so hard I was out of breath. “Occupied? No, Rayford, you don’t understand, it’s very important that I speak with him—”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” he said briskly. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Rayford had never been remote like this with me before. He was acting like we’d never even met. This smelled to high heaven.
Something was seriously wrong.
“Rayford,” I said, controlling the hysteria in my voice as best I could, “what’s going on?”
Another pause, like he was considering whether or not to answer, then he made a little embarrassed cough. “Mr. Boudreaux has a guest. I’ll be happy to tell him you called, however. Have a nice evening.”
The phone went dead in my hand. I stared at it in amazement. Then, with a shock like I’d stuck my finger into a power outlet, I knew.
Eeny said, “Well?”
Cold with horror, I said, “What day is it, Eeny?”
She frowned at me. “It’s Tuesday.”
“No, the date!” I shouted, flailing my hands. “What’s the date?”
“The sixteenth. Why?”
The sixteenth. Dear Lord. Today is Jackson’s birthday.
He had to get married by his birthday or lose his inheritance. He couldn’t come to the phone because he was occupied with a “guest.”
I dropped the phone and left it dangling from its cord as I tore down the hall to the bedroom to get a pair of shoes, screaming at Eeny over my shoulder to call me a taxi and put it on super emergency rush.
I had to go stop a wedding.