Kaye Dacus - Menu for Romance

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.

“Can I...?” Patrick looked at Major, then at Ma.

“Yeah.” Major stepped back and let the kid have his place beside Ma.

“Ms. O’Hara, it’s me, Patrick. I’m so sorry about what happened. I hope you’re better soon.”

Ma’s glazed eyes tried to fix on the young man. “I had fun. But you need to go back and make sure the macaroni and cheese isn’t burning. I won’t eat it if it’s burned on the bottom.”

Patrick relaxed a bit. “I’ll do that. But you don’t worry about that. You just worry about healing, okay?”

“’Kay.” She closed her eyes. “Major Kirby, don’t leave me.”

“I’m staying right here.” He pulled over a stool. “I’ll never leave you, Ma.” Even though it would mean sacrificing everything he wanted in life. He would do his duty.

“You’ll come tomorrow?”

Major pulled the covers up under his mother’s arms. “I’ll come tomorrow.” He set two pillows beside her. “You can put your hands down now.”

Gingerly, Ma settled her arms down on top of the pillows. “What if my shoulders get cold?”

He went to the closet and pulled a small lap blanket down from the shelf. He unfolded it and tucked it in around her shoulders. “There. All snug?”

She wiggled farther down into the nest created by the pillows and covers. “All snug.” Each time she blinked, it took a little longer for her eyes to open. The emergency room doctor had said she would probably sleep through the night and most of the day tomorrow. And Mr. Thibodeaux had arranged for around-the-clock nursing attention for the next week or so until the bandages came off.

“A nurse is going to be coming in every so often to check on you during the night.” He held up a little speaker. “And they’re going to be monitoring you, so if you wake up and you’re in pain or you need to go to the bathroom, just say something and they’ll come help you.”

“’Kay.” Her eyes drifted closed.

He leaned over the bed, careful not to bump her arm, and kissed her forehead. “Good night, Ma. I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Me, too.”

He stopped and talked to the floor nurse on the way out to make sure they called him in case anything happened. Then with heavy steps, he walked out into the chill night air to his Jeep. He glanced at the clock on the radio as he pulled out of the parking lot. Three o’clock in the morning. In two hours, he needed to be at work to prepare food for Mr. Guidry’s Thursday morning prayer breakfast. So that everyone could sleep in and recover from their late night working the banquet before they had to report to prepare for lunch service, he hadn’t scheduled a subordinate to assist.

At home he collapsed on the bed without even bothering to undress—but did make sure the alarm clock feature on his phone was set for four thirty. He’d barely closed his eyes when the alarm sounded, it seemed.

More tired than he’d ever been in his life, he dragged himself to the shower and managed, somehow, to get ready for a full day of work and then a full evening out at the Pointe with Ma.

As executive chef and co-owner of a restaurant, he could expect to put in these kinds of hours on a regular basis in the beginning.

He stuffed anything he might possibly need into his black duffel and walked out the front door, then went right back inside for his knife case—remembering after five minutes of wandering all over the condo looking for it that he’d left it at work last night.

At five o’clock in the morning, Bonneterre still slept. Only a hint of pink tinged the sky on the other side of the river. He had to sit through red lights at a couple of vacant intersections and fight falling asleep before they changed to green.

The parking garage security attendant greeted him with a wave and a stifled yawn. Major had to swipe his card twice—the second time making sure the magnetic tape was actually facing the right direction.

His shoes seemed to be made out of concrete. Every step sapped him of a little more of his precious energy reserve. Finally, he made it to his office. Someone—probably Steven—had thoughtfully cleaned and repacked his knives and put the soft-sided case on his desk. He steeled himself against the temptation of collapsing into his chair and closing his eyes for a few minutes, pulled his burgundy jacket out of the armoire, and went down to the executive kitchen to get to work.

By the time Mr. Guidry’s breakfast meeting broke up, Major had come to a decision. He gave Lawson a few minutes to get back to his office before following him. He knocked on the open office door.

Lawson looked up from his computer and pulled his glasses off. “Come in, come in.”

“Do you have a few minutes, sir?”

“Of course. Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Major forced his body to fold itself down onto one of the leather chairs facing Lawson’s massive desk.

“Meredith said you had an emergency last night and had to go to the emergency room. I hope you’re all right.”

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t me. It was my mother. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.” The nausea that had started with the doctor’s call last night returned full force. Good thing he hadn’t eaten in more than twelve hours.

“If you’re worried that there will be any negative repercussions from us because you left to take care of your ailing mother, don’t.”

Major wanted to get up to pace but wrapped his hands around the wooden arms of the chair instead. “That wasn’t really what I’m here about. But it does bear on what I need to tell you.”

Lawson leaned back in his chair and tapped his glasses against his chin. “Am I correct in assuming this is about the restaurant deal, then?”