While Kirby’s engine choked itself off, Major typed out a return message:
The phone flashed a confirmation that the message was sent, and he holstered it. Grabbing his black duffel from the back, he left the orange dry-cleaning bag to drop off at the cleaners Tuesday.
To blow off some steam and try to relax enough to fall asleep, he turned on the computer and played a few rounds of Spider Solitaire. About an hour later, his whole body aching, eyes watering from yawning every other minute, he grabbed a shower before turning in. At thirty-eight years old, he shouldn’t feel this out of shape—of course, if he still made time to go to the gym every day and didn’t enjoy eating his own cooking as much as he did, he probably wouldn’t be this out of shape. He weighed as much now as he had playing middle linebacker in college—except twenty years ago, it had all been muscle.
But who trusted a skinny chef anyway?
Thunder grumbled, and rain pattered against the window. Major kicked at the comforter that had become entangled in his legs during the night and rolled over to check the time.
Eight thirty. What a perfect day to don ratty old sweats, sit in the recliner watching football on the plasma TV, and eat junk food.
If he had a plasma TV. Or any junk food in the condo.
Alas, though, he’d promised Mrs. Guidry he would drop by. Best check the schedule of games, see which he cared least about, and make the visit then. He pulled on the ratty old sweats and an equally ratty ULB T-shirt, though. As he passed down the short hallway, he tapped the temperature control on the thermostat up a couple of degrees to knock a little of the chill out of the air.
His stomach growled in concert with the thunder outside. The tile in the kitchen sent shockwaves of cold up his legs. Shifting from foot to foot, he yanked open the dryer door, dug through the clothes in it, and found two somewhat matching socks. Sometimes having the laundry hookups here did come in handy, even though they took up more than a third of the space in the small galley kitchen.
The fridge beckoned. Not much there—maybe he should hit the grocery store on the way back from the Guidrys’ open house.
Half an hour later, with the Rose Bowl Parade providing ambiance, he sank into his recliner and dug into an andouille, shrimp, potato, mushroom, red pepper, onion, jack cheese, and bacon omelet spread with Creole mustard on top.
Maybe he should consider making a New Year’s resolution to cut back on calories this year. What was missing? Oh yeah, the grits. He’d left the bowl sitting by the stove.
Halfway to the kitchen to retrieve the rest of his breakfast, the phone rang. He unplugged it from the charger as he passed by.
“Hello?”
“Mr. O’Hara, this is Nick Sevellier at Beausoleil Pointe Center.” Major stopped. So did his heart.
“I’m sorry to bother you on a holiday, sir, but your mother has had an episode. She’s asking for you.”
Chapter 2
Meredith poured herself another mug of coffee. The machine might have cost only twenty dollars, but it sure did keep the liquid hot. Careful not to jiggle the tray table when she replaced the carafe, she blew through the steam rising from the cup and turned to survey her house.
She thrilled at the thought:
From the outside, she’d been afraid she wouldn’t be able to afford it—the previous owner had restored the exterior and landscaped the front yard to complement it. Inside was a totally different story.
Meredith sipped her coffee and leaned against the door frame between the dining room and kitchen. Pipes stuck out of the wall where the sink should have been. A few remnants of cabinets hung from the walls, and the plywood subfloor moaned and bowed whenever she walked across it.
Her parents had tried to talk her out of it. The previous owner had gone into foreclosure trying to restore the house for resale. But Meredith didn’t mind the gutted kitchen, nor the bare bulbs swinging from wires in every room. She’d be able to fix up the inside exactly how she wanted.
But not if she just stood around looking at it.
Jazz music echoed through the house from the radio. The two large space heaters worked overtime to chase away the damp chill of New Year’s Day. Meredith slipped on her safety goggles and mask, opened the can of paint stripper, and started on the built-in bookcase in the living room. Between the music and the vision of what the house would eventually look like, she lost herself in the project.
She’d just started the fourth shelf when her phone’s earpiece beeped. She grabbed it from the mantel and stuck it in her ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Anne.” Her cousin yawned. “Sorry. What time did you get in last night? I never even heard you drive up.”
“After two o’clock.”
“And you’re already out and about?”
“You know how it is when days off are few and far between.”
“Ah. You’re at the new house.”
“Right you are, my dear.”
Anne yawned again. “It’s not even nine yet. Did you sleep at all?”
“A few hours.” Meredith continued stripping the absolutely gross, moss-colored paint from the original, hand-detailed woodwork beneath.
“It can’t be healthy for you to get only five or six hours of sleep a night.”
Meredith let out a derisive snort. “And I’m hearing this from the woman who doesn’t sleep at all during wedding season?”
The thunder outside nearly drowned out Anne’s chuckle. “Point taken. Anyway, that’s not why I called. I’m looking at the Style section of the newspaper. Looks like you really outdid yourself last night.”
Tingles of trepidation and pride danced up and down Meredith’s skin. “The article is good?”
“Article? Try the whole section! Looks like the writers had the time of their lives. All of the quotes from guests are glowing. And the food reviewer couldn’t find enough adjectives to describe Major’s food.”
“Good. Mom and Dad will be happy.” Meredith released her breath and rolled her head to try to ease the tension in her neck.
“Of course they will. Their oldest daughter is the best event planner in town.”
“Second best.”
“Oh no,” Anne disagreed. “I left Boudreaux-Guidry because all those huge events daunted me. I’d never have been able to pull off a party like that.”
“Oh, spare me. You did last summer—or have you already forgotten the wedding and reception you put together for the most popular movie star in the country?”
“But you and Major really helped me out with that. Take the compliment, Meredith. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
Why did Anne’s praise make Meredith feel like a complete fraud? “Well, thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll leave the paper on your kitchen table before I go.”
