Rosemary

“Daddy, Mama, I hope you don’t mind, I’m bringing home my boyfriend for dinner next week.”

Betsy and Lionel DuChamps both dropped their silver forks with a clatter onto the maple Louis XIV dining table.

“Well, sweetie, who is the lucky fellow?” Betsy asked, barely able to hide the wild curiosity behind her genteel exterior.

Rosemary could barely contain herself either, she was so excited to see her daddy’s reaction. “Ashton Boudreaux! I think you know his daddy, Jimmy Boudreaux of JB Chicken.”

Then to add a little extra flair to her announcement, she sang the commercial jingle: “JB stands for Just the Best!”

The color wheel on her daddy’s face rotated from gray to beet red to rutabaga purple.

Her mother simply folded her linen napkin and placed it on the table. Then she crossed her fork and knife at the top of her plate to indicate to the help that she was finished eating, though she had actually eaten nothing. Obviously, she had no more appetite for chicken.

Lety, the family’s longtime cook, cleared Betsy’s place and was about to take it to the kitchen. But Rosemary flagged Lety down. “Lety, if Mama’s not gonna eat that, I’ll take it. I am absolutely famished. Ol’ Ash and I had quite the night out on the town last night and I was so exhausted I slept all day and haven’t eaten a single thing since brunch at Du Monde yesterday.”

Lety smiled and placed the second plate in front of Rosemary. She shot her a suspicious look with her blue eyes. “You always were the best eater in the house, little one.”

Rosemary winked. “You know, Lety, I find that a clear conscience frees up more room in one’s belly to enjoy your fine cooking.”

This made Lety smile before she went back to the kitchen.

“Well, gosh, you two. Say something. Anything!” Rosemary cajoled, with a mouthful of chicken. So much for finishing-school table etiquette.

Lionel finally did speak. He turned to his wife and said, “Betsy, I’ll be in my office.” And with that, he stood and gathered up his plate, fork and knife and walked away.

Rosemary watched him go and then turned to Betsy, pointing a forkful of chicken thigh in the direction of her father’s back. “You know, that must be a man with the clearest conscience of all. Man alive, nothing can piss him off so bad he won’t eat.”

Betsy finally looked at her daughter. “My only child doesn’t appreciate anything we’ve done for her. She leaves my house to live in a moldy warehouse and teach kindergarten. God surely has a sense of humor.”

Rosemary stuffed her mouth with some fried okra. “Doesn’t she, though?” she said.

“Oh, Rosemary, it is too late to try to get a rise out of me with your feminist nonsense. You done fried that nerve straight away by announcing that you’re dating a goddamned Boudreaux.” Betsy spat the name out as if it was grit in her mouth.

Rosemary was going to reply with another witticism, but she stopped herself when she spotted the tear in her mother’s eye. And there it went, down her cheek.

It wasn’t a serious bout of waterworks. Just a single tear. Somehow, that single tear was much more affecting that a full-blown sob fest.

“Mama.” Rosemary stood and rushed over to her mother’s side. “Mama, don’t cry. I was just so excited. I know you don’t like his family, but I just can’t do anything about this stupid heart of mine.”

When Betsy didn’t reply, Rosemary stood up straight and took a deep breath. Time to let it go for now, she thought.

Betsy said, “I need to have a lie down and we’ll discuss this in the morning.” That translated to, I need my Xanax and a glass of wine, and I’m going to go to sleep at 8 p.m. so I can end this most horrid day as early as possible.

Rosemary was left alone to eat two plates of chicken thighs, sweet potato and the best damn fried okra in the South. Which was fine with her, because it gave her time to think about the future.

Between her income at teaching kindergarten, and Ash’s income at—whatever it was he did, plus all that chicken money he surely had—maybe they could hire Lety away from her parents. Then she could eat fried okra every night until her arteries burst. Which they wouldn’t anyway, because of her special condition.

Well, maybe she would have to wait until that trust fund kicked in before they hired Lety away.

The bigger issue that was now occurring to Rosemary was not about money or trust funds or housekeepers or cooks or okra—although, holy shit, that okra tasted good tonight—but about her very special condition that she failed to disclose to her probably-future husband.

The fact was, she had a beast inside her. Like, literally. It was such a hushed secret that sometimes she forgot it herself, except on the nights when there was a new moon. Those nights, the big cat came out. Those were the nights she finally felt at home with her own family.

There had been a handful of panther sightings in the swamps and in the more secluded areas around Lake Pontchartrain, but local wildlife experts dismissed them as the rantings of old men with nothing better to do than drink moonshine and tell tales. But the truth was, the panthers were real in these parts, mainly because of the DuChamps.

Yeah. That was a big thing for a boyfriend—let alone a husband—to accept. Especially if it meant that their children could inherit the pesky little gene.

Rosemary piled a fork load of fig-orange sauce with chicken into her mouth. She chewed on her thoughts and on the chicken. Maybe that trust fund would soften the blow.