The Sunday Table

By Sunday morning, New Orleans woke up smelling like forgiveness—rain rinsed the streets, the church bells practiced mercy, and every porch swung in rhythm with somebody’s song.

Ava St. James stood in her kitchen, stirring the pot like she was negotiating peace with the past. The gumbo simmered low and lazy, releasing a perfume of roux and memory. She’d cleaned twice, rearranged flowers three times, and told herself twelve different ways that this was just dinner.

“Stop frettin’,” Ruth said, folding napkins into impossible swans. “They’re people, not presidents.”

Ava frowned. “Marvella du Prée walks like she got her own national anthem. I’m not servin’ her paper napkins.”

“Ma’am, if gumbo can’t humble her, nothin’ will.”

From the dining room came Genevieve’s voice—already performing. “If she brings pearls, I’m wearing sequins. We’ll cancel each other out like dignified thunder.”

Theo entered next, sleeves rolled, carrying a speaker under his arm. “Jazz or gospel for the background?”

“Jazz,” Ava said automatically, then paused. “Something that makes people tell the truth.”

Ruth smirked. “So no gospel then.”

A horn sounded outside—the kind of polished, punctual sound that belonged to people who owned entire companies but still checked their watches. Ava wiped her hands, exhaled, and whispered, “Lord, this better be the good kind of storm.”

The du Prée entourage arrived like a magazine spread—elegant cars, quiet drivers, and a faint smell of roses that clung to the air like privilege.

Marvella stepped out first, wearing a pale lavender suit and pearls the size of opinions. Beside her, Mabel adjusted her hat and declared, “If they don’t fry okra, I’m revolting.”

Marcus followed, holding a basket of wine and a grin he tried to disguise as calm.

When Ava opened the door, something eased in both of them—like two songs recognizing the same melody.

“Welcome,” Ava said. “Dinner’s on time and the weather’s been baptized.”

“Then it’s a holy day,” Marvella said, stepping inside.

Rory greeted them from the hallway. “Du Prées! Come on in. Shoes off or boldness on—your choice.”

“Boldness, thank you,” Mabel said, already taking a photo of the kitchen ceiling. “This light’s good for truth-telling.”

They gathered around the table—a long, mismatched thing that had hosted everything from first birthdays to failed diets. Ruth placed steaming bowls before each guest, while Genevieve poured sweet tea like it was gospel.

Marvella took a cautious spoonful of gumbo, then stopped mid-chew. “Lord have mercy,” she said softly. “That’s not food; that’s testimony.”

“Every bowl tells a story,” Rory said proudly. “That one’s been simmerin’ three generations.”

“Four,” Ava corrected. “I just added forgiveness to the recipe.”

Mabel raised her glass. “Well, bless the ingredients and the audacity.”

Laughter spilled like a second course.

Marcus watched Ava move between kitchen and table, steady and radiant. He’d seen her confidence before—but here, in her element, she was luminous. He caught her eye once, and for a moment, the room fell away.

“Quit starin’,” Genevieve whispered to him, grinning. “She burns hotter than a roux when men look too long.”

“I’ll take the risk,” Marcus said.

“You sound like husband number five,” she teased.

“Maybe just the sequel,” he replied.

Genevieve slapped the table. “Oh, he’s good. I see why you like him, Ava.”

Ava shook her head, but her smile betrayed her. 

When the plates cleared, Ruth brought out pecan pie with whipped cream that glowed like mercy. Conversation drifted toward business—the courtyard project, renovations, suppliers.

Marvella listened more than she spoke. When she finally did, her tone was precise but softened. “Marcus tells me you plan to use local artists for the courtyard stage?”

Theo nodded eagerly. “Yes ma’am. We’ve got brass trios, spoken word nights, and Creole blues Sundays. Music that feels like our people.”

Marvella smiled. “Then make sure the lights are kind. Nobody sings their best under fluorescent truth.”

Rory pointed his fork at her. “You sound like you’ve been to church in a jazz bar.”

“Same thing,” Mabel muttered. “Only one has better drinks.”

Ava’s laughter filled the space again. “I think I like y’all more than I planned to.”

Marvella leaned back, assessing her with that quiet, regal scrutiny that could cut or crown. “And I like you more than I expected to. You have conviction without cruelty. My son needs that.”

Ava tilted her head. “And you? What do you need?”

Marvella hesitated, something flickering behind her poise. “A reason to stop managing other people’s happiness.”

Ruth whispered, “Well, amen to that.”

As twilight melted across the courtyard, Marcus stood to speak. “I have an offer,” he said, glancing at Rory and Theo. “MAX Holdings will handle infrastructure—renovation, permits, marketing. But I want the St. James family to remain majority stakeholders.”

Rory blinked. “You serious?”

“Completely,” Marcus said. “This partnership only works if it feels like home. I want to help build the stage, not own the song.”

Theo jumped up, fist in the air. “Yessir! I knew the gardener had sense!”

Marvella raised her brow. “The gardener?”

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?” Genevieve said sweetly. “That’s how we met him—trimming roses and breaking hearts.”

Mabel nearly choked laughing. “You started with deception? Lord, no wonder it works.”

Ava shot Marcus a teasing glare. “He’s learned to prune carefully.”

“Every day,” Marcus said, his eyes never leaving hers. 

Later, when coffee replaced wine and the table quieted, Ava and Marvella found themselves alone on the porch. Fireflies pulsed in the garden, tiny lanterns blessing the night.

“I underestimated you,” Marvella admitted.

“I’m used to that,” Ava replied. “People see the gray hair and assume the story’s over.”

“On the contrary,” Marvella said. “I think it’s just well-written.”

They watched the magnolias sway, full and white against the dark.

“You remind me of myself,” Marvella said after a moment. “Before I started protecting instead of living.”

Ava looked at her gently. “Then maybe you came here to remember.”

Marvella smiled, a rare, human smile. “Perhaps I did.”

Inside, Marcus and Rory clinked glasses over plans and Theo danced with Mabel to a slow horn on the speaker. Genevieve was telling the dessert like it owed her gossip.

Ava turned to the older woman beside her. “Your son’s different when he’s here. He laughs like it’s legal again.”

“Then I’ll send him here more often,” Marvella said. “Maybe he’ll stay.”

Ava said nothing, but her silence was permission. 

When the du Prées finally rose to leave, hugs replaced handshakes. Mabel promised to send her gumbo review “to the Smithsonian.” Ruth packed leftovers with military precision. Genevieve kissed cheeks and whispered, “Tell him don’t wait till number five, sugar.”

Marcus lingered by the door, his hand brushing Ava’s as he said goodbye.

“I don’t want tonight to end,” he murmured.

“Then don’t let it,” she replied softly.

He smiled. “You make things sound simple.”

“They are,” she said. “It’s people who complicate them.”

He leaned closer, voice low. “Then maybe I’ll stay long enough to learn your version.”

She looked up at him—steady, amused, and a little undone. “You’d better bring more roses.”

“Always,” he said. 

When the door finally closed behind them, Genevieve flopped onto the couch, kicking off her shoes. “Well,” she sighed, “if that wasn’t a divine setup, I don’t know what is.”

Rory stacked dishes and muttered, “Lord, we just did diplomacy with diamonds.”

Theo leaned against the counter, glowing. “Think he’ll really invest?”

Ava wiped her hands on a towel, looking out through the screen door where the headlights had disappeared. “He already did.”

Ruth raised a brow. “Money?”

“No,” Ava said, smiling. “Faith.”

Outside, the night hummed with new beginnings. The roses swayed in the dark breeze, whispering secrets to the stars. Somewhere between gumbo and goodbyes, two families had stopped being strangers—and a woman who had sworn off vows felt her heart rehearse one more time.