While her father prayed, Meredith moved around the perimeter of the room to the opening of the service hall leading to the kitchen. As soon as he said, “Amen,” she motioned the servers to disperse throughout the dining hall, not envying them the trays they carried, piled with covered dishes. She would never have survived in that job.

Major brought up the rear of the line of servers and joined her. “Sounds like everything’s going well.”

“It is now. I wasn’t so sure there about forty-five minutes ago. But once Manny figured out that the elevator system hadn’t been reset since the fire alarm went off this afternoon, things have been flowing just fine.”

“Yeah, getting this many guests up twenty-three flights without elevators wouldn’t have been pretty.” Major’s phone rang—she’d heard that ringtone once before, and that time Major had paled and left her office immediately. Now he grimaced. “If you’ll excuse me.” He disappeared down the hall and into the kitchen.

She sighed. By now she should be accustomed to his shutting her out of anything remotely personal, no matter how much she really wanted to get to know what was going on in his life outside of this place.

* * *

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.