Dinner and Disclosure

Chapter 4 – Dinner and Disclosure

Marcus du Prée had faced corporate mergers, boardroom coups, and billion-dollar negotiations, but nothing compared to explaining to his mother why he was catching a 6 a.m. flight to New Orleans.

Marvella stood in the foyer of the du Prée estate, wrapped in a silk robe that announced, I raised you better than this.“You’re flying cross-country for gumbo?” she asked.

“Business,” Marcus said, slipping on his blazer.

Marvella crossed her arms. “Business has conference calls. Foolishness has plane tickets.”

Mabel appeared from the hallway, armed with coffee and commentary. “If he’s chasing a woman, at least tell me she’s not another aspiring influencer.”

“She’s not,” Marcus said with a firm tone..

“Well Good,” Mabel replied. “Because those ring-light girls don’t last through real humidity.”

Marvella sighed. “Okay what’s her name?”

He hesitated just a fraction too long. “Ava St. James.”

Marvella seems to froze, recognition flickering. “The restaurant woman? That who you met her?”

“Um Yes,” he said carefully.

“Isn’t she seventy!”

“Seventy, what the..” Mabel repeated, delighted. “Finally, someone older than your usual existential crisis.”

Marvella pressed her lips together, considering. “Your father always said age was seasoning, not limitation and I think he was trying to justify him being older then me, But this? This is cayenne pepper.”

Marcus smiled at her, “Then wish me luck. I’m stepping into her kitchen.”

“Lord help you,” Mabel said. “Her brothers will eat you alive.”

By the time his jet touched down in Louisiana, Marcus’s pulse had settled into a calm determination. The air was thick with rain, jazz, and something he hadn’t felt in years—anticipation.

He arrived at St. James Creole unannounced. The restaurant sat in the heart of New Orleans, its walls lined with photographs of customers and kin. Inside, the smell of butter, garlic, and ambition collided.

Rory St. James was at the counter, arguing with a supplier over shrimp sizes when Marcus stepped in.

“Morning,” Marcus said. “I’m here for the business meeting.”

Rory, without turning, said, “Unless you’re the seafood delivery, we got nothin’ scheduled till noon.”

“I’m Marcus du Prée.”

The phone filled to the floor. Rory spun around, his face performing three emotions before settling on panic. “You’re Marcus du Prée? Lord, I been cussin’ out your receptionist for two months!”

Marcus chuckled. “She deserved it.”

Ruth appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. “You the man behind that fancy email? The one talkin’ numbers with commas we can’t count?”

“Guilty.”

“Well,” Ruth said, “don’t just stand there lookin’ rich—sit.”

Genevieve entered next, smelling of gardenia and gossip. “Well, well. If it isn’t the man who made our Ava forget she was retired.”

Marcus blinked. “Excuse me?”

Rory groaned. “Genny, hush!”

“Don’t ‘hush’ me,” Genevieve said, grinning. “I recognize him. That’s the gardener from the party! I told y’all he wasn’t just clipping roses—he was out here pruning hearts!”

Rory’s jaw dropped. “You mean to tell me this is Marcus—the CEO Marcus—is the same Marcus who was trimmin’ bushes?”

Ruth nearly dropped her towel. “Oh Lord, we fed the man jambalaya and sent him home with leftovers!”

Theo came rushing in, face pale. “Wait, wait —what? He’s the Marcus du Prée?”

“Guilty again,” Marcus said. “Though the gumbo was worth the deception.”

The room exploded in overlapping voices.

Rory: “So you mean you was in my kitchen and didn’t say who you were?”Genevieve: “I knew it! He’s the plot twist in heels!”Theo: “I emailed you our deck! You said you’d read it—”Ruth: “At least he reads!”

Amid the chaos, Ava entered through the side door, carrying a basket of fresh herbs and spices . The moment she saw Marcus, she just froze. The air changed.

“You,” she said softly in disbelief.

“Ava,” Marcus replied, standing up.

“You could’ve told me.”

“I really wanted to,” he said. “But every time I looked at you, I the thought of titles didn’t existed.”

The family went silent, collectively realizing they were witnessing something delicate and wanted to see how Ava was going to handle it .

Ava’s gaze was sharp and direct, but trembling at the edges. “You let me believe you were a gardener Mr. Dupree”

“I am a gardener,” he said gently. “Just one with too many meetings.”

Just then the tension cracked into a ripple of laughter—Rory’s first, then Theo’s, then even Ruth’s soft snort. Genevieve fanned herself. “Now If she don’t marry this man, I will.”

They moved into the dining room for the official meeting. Marcus slowly unfolded the proposal Theo had drafted and spread it across the old family table.

“So I’ve reviewed your concept,” he began. “The courtyard jazz idea—it’s inspiring . But your numbers are optimistic.”

Rory quickly straightened. “Optimism’s part of the recipe.”

“Then let’s make sure the recipe doesn’t burn,” Marcus said, sliding forward, adjusting figures. “You will need renovation capital, brand visibility, and a sustainable supplier chain. MAX Holdings can help with all three—on one condition.”

Theo leaned forward. “What condition?”

“That you keep the soul of the restaurant exactly as it is. No sterile franchise clones. The smell, the laughter, the history—you don’t bottle that. You let it breathe.”

Rory nodded slowly. “You talk like somebody who’s been in a kitchen.”

“My father taught me business,” Marcus said. “But my mother taught me to taste before judging.”

Ava, listening quietly, felt a tug in her chest. He wasn’t performing. He believed every word.

Genevieve whispered to Ruth, “If he ain’t careful, I’m gonna believe in men again.”

Ruth swatted her. “Stay saved.”

After the meeting, Rory offered a tour of the courtyard. Marcus followed him outside, admiring the space—cracked bricks, climbing vines, and ghosts of old music.

“This is where we’ll put the stage,” Theo said, pointing to the empty space . “Every Friday night, live brass band, and dessert under the stars.”

“Sounds perfect,” Marcus said. “I can already hear it.”

Rory clapped his shoulder with a little pressure . “You’re all right for a billionaire.”

“Well don’t tell my board,” Marcus replied.

When Rory and Theo stepped away to argue about plumbing, Ava joined Marcus near the broken fountain. For a long time, neither spoke.

“I have to admit you handled that better than I expected,” she said.

“Well I’ve had practice with difficult rooms.”

“I meant my family.”

He smiled. “Them too.”

She set back and studied him, the man she thought she’d figured out, and saw more layers she hadn’t imagined. “You could’ve just called.”

“I could’ve,” he said. “But I wanted to see first hand where you came from.”

“And?”

He looked around the courtyard—the laughter spilling from the kitchen, the smell of roux and rain. “Now I understand why you glow when you talk about home.”

Ava’s throat tightened. “Careful, Marcus. You’re talking like a man who might stay awhile.”

He met her eyes. “I could. If I’m welcome.”

Before she could answer, Genevieve burst through the door, waving her phone. “Marvella du Prée is trending again—something about wearing diamonds to a food-bank gala! Lord, these rich people dramatic!”

Marcus groaned. “Aunt Mabel’s doing damage control, I’m sure.”

Genevieve squinted. “You got an aunt Mabel too? You sure we ain’t cousins?”

Ava rolled her eyes. “Genevieve, please.”

“I’m just sayin’—this family attracts drama like butter attracts flavor.”

That evening, the St. James clan insisted Marcus stay for dinner. Ruth cooked like she was feeding the angels, Genevieve as always provided the commentary, while Rory provided the scolding.

When Marcus took his first bite, he closed his eyes. “This,” he said, “is what success tastes like.”

“Don’t sweet-talk the food,” Ruth warned. “It’ll get ideas.”

Conversation flowed. Marcus told stories of his father’s rose gardens; Asher (calling in via video chat) told war stories that didn’t seem entirely legal. Laughter rolled through the house like good jazz—off-beat, soulful, impossible to fake.

When dessert came—pecan pie with rum sauce—Ava found herself relaxing. For the first time in years, she wasn’t performing; she was being.

After dinner, Marcus helped her stack plates in the kitchen. “You know,” he said softly, “I didn’t come here just for business.”

“I suspected,” she said.

“I came because when you danced with me under that tent, I realized I hadn’t felt peace like that since my father passed and I wanted more of that feeling .

She set down a dish. “Peace is expensive, Marcus. Be careful what you trade for it.”

He smiled. “Maybe it’s time I invest in something that doesn’t depreciate.”

Her laugh came out more like a sigh. “You’re dangerous with metaphors.”

“And you’re irresistible with truth.”

They stood there, inches apart, the air thick with unspoken questions. Then Rory’s voice broke through from the other room: “Y’all better not be flirtin’ over my clean dishes!”

Ava stepped back, eyes sparkling. “You heard the man.”

Marcus chuckled. “I’ll take that as a maybe.” 

When he finally left, the family stood on the porch waving like they’d just met royalty. Theo shouted, “Tell your people to call my people!”

“I am the people!” Marcus called back.

Ava lingered at the gate as his car pulled away. The taillights glowed like embers disappearing into night.

Genevieve slipped beside her. “You like him.”

“I respect him,” Ava corrected.

“Same thing,” Genevieve said. “Just the version that takes longer.”

Ava smiled faintly. “He’s trouble.”

“Then he fits right in.”

The night wind stirred, carrying the scent of roses from the garden, and Ava realized—whether she wanted to or not—the fifth vow had already begun writing itself.