Chapter 1

Mariah

I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm, careful not to let the sleeve of my chef's coat catch fire on the open flame. The kitchen of Mama J's is a symphony of chaos—pots clanging, oil sizzling, servers calling out orders. The familiar aromas of garlic, paprika, and cayenne wrap around me like my grandmother's hug, comforting even in the midst of madness.

"Order up! Two gumbos, a fried catfish plate, and jambalaya, extra spicy!" I call out, sliding the perfectly arranged plates onto the pass.

My sous chef, Darnell, nods without looking up from the roux he's been stirring for the last twenty minutes. "Got the blackened chicken coming in three minutes, Mariah."

"Where's the etouffee for table seven?" Mrs. Wallace, our longest-serving waitress, appears at the window, her order pad clutched in hand like it might escape.

"Coming right behind the catfish. Tell Mr. Thibodeaux I added extra crawfish, just how he likes it." I turn back to my station where three different pans demand my attention simultaneously.

The dinner rush on a Friday night doesn't leave room for error—or for dwelling on the notice from the bank that arrived this morning. But even as my hands move with practiced precision, chopping, stirring, plating, my mind keeps circling back to those cold black numbers on white paper.

Final Notice. Due in full: $27,456.82. Foreclosure proceedings will commence...

The knife in my hand falters for just a second before muscle memory takes over. Can't mess up this prep. Can't waste a single shrimp or ounce of andouille sausage. Every ingredient costs money we barely have.

"You okay over there?" Darnell's voice breaks through my thoughts.

I force a smile. "Never better. Just thinking about that special sauce for tomorrow's crawfish boil."

The lie comes easily after months of practice. No one needs to know how bad things really are—especially not the staff who depend on their paychecks, or my parents who've poured their entire lives into this place.

The dinner rush finally begins to slow around nine-thirty, giving me a moment to breathe. I step into the walk-in cooler, ostensibly to check inventory, but really to feel the blessed cool air on my hot skin and have a moment alone with the panic that's been building in my chest all day.

The shelves tell their own story of our decline—half-empty, where they used to be packed to bursting. I count the containers of prepped vegetables, mentally calculating how to stretch them through the weekend. We're running on margins so thin they'd disappear if you looked at them sideways.

My parents built this restaurant from nothing thirty years ago. I grew up crawling under these same prep tables, learning to stir a roux before I could read, watching my father charm every customer who walked through the door while my mother created magic in the kitchen. They'd worked sixteen-hour days for years, saving every penny to give me opportunities they never had.

And what had I done with that precious gift? Gone to culinary school with dreams of bringing Mama J's into the modern era, only to return to a business drowning in debt after my father's heart attack three years ago.

"Not here. Not now." I press my palms against my eyes, willing back the tears that threaten. Crying never paid a bill or saved a business.

The walk-in door swings open, letting in a blast of heat and kitchen noise. Darnell sticks his head in. "Boss, your mom's on the phone. Says it's important."

My stomach drops. Mom and Dad are supposed to be enjoying their first real vacation in fifteen years—a week in Florida with my aunt. I'd practically forced them to go, promising I had everything under control.

Another lie.

"I'll take it in the office." I grab the container of prepped trinity mix I came for and head out.

The small office tucked behind the kitchen is more storage closet than proper workspace. Receipts and invoices cover every surface, many marked with red "PAST DUE" stamps. I close the door against the kitchen noise and pick up the phone.

"Mom? Everything okay?"

"Just checking in, baby." Her voice, warm and familiar, makes my throat tighten. "How was service tonight?"

"Busy. Good busy." I force cheerfulness into my voice. "Mr. Thibodeaux was in with his whole family. Said to send you his best."

"That's nice." She pauses. "Did anything come in the mail today?"

My heart stutters. She knows. Somehow, she always knows.

"Just the usual." The lie tastes bitter. "How's Florida? You and Dad getting some sun?"

"Mariah Jean Jeffries." Her tone shifts, and I'm suddenly ten years old again, caught sneaking beignets before dinner. "Your father and I raised you better than to lie to your mama."

The weight I've been carrying alone presses down harder, making it difficult to breathe in the small, cluttered space.

I sigh, sinking into the rickety chair behind the desk. The ancient thing squeaks in protest, another reminder of all the things we can't afford to replace.

"The bank sent the final notice," I admit, the words like stones in my throat.

"I knew it." Mom's voice wavers. "Your father doesn't know. I've been checking the online account from here. How bad?"

I glance at the crumpled notice I'd stuffed in the desk drawer this morning. "Twenty-seven thousand due. Two weeks before they start foreclosure."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Her whisper carries the weight of three decades of dreams.

"I'm so sorry, Mom." My voice cracks. "I've been trying everything—cutting costs, negotiating with suppliers, picking up catering gigs on the side. It's just not enough."

"This isn't on you, baby girl. Your daddy and I, we've been struggling for years. The neighborhood changing, those fancy new fusion places opening up—"

"No." I cut her off, straightening my spine. "Mama J's isn't going down. Not while I've got breath in my body. I promised Daddy after his heart attack I'd keep his legacy going, and I meant it."

"Mariah—"

"I've got something in the works." I tap my fingernails against the desk, a nervous habit I've had since childhood. "Remember that application I told you about? For the Saint-Pierre anniversary?"

"The billionaire and his chef wife? That fancy-pants thing uptown?"

I laugh despite everything. Mom's ability to cut straight through pretension is one of her greatest gifts.

"Yes, that 'fancy-pants thing.' Celia Saint-Pierre isn't just any chef, Mom. She's revolutionized the way people see Black fine dining. And her husband Aston specializes in business. He's a rich man."

The idea had sparked when I saw their announcement in the culinary newsletter I still receive from my alma mater. A two-year anniversary celebration with an open call for caterers to showcase traditional southern and Caribbean cuisine—a favorite of the Saint-Pierres.

"You really think they'd pick Mama J's? Over all those high-end catering companies?"

"They're looking for authenticity, not pretension. Who knows soul food better than us?" I pull out the application I've been working on for days, refining each word. "Plus, it's not just about the catering fee. The networking alone could save us. If I can get Celia to try our food, maybe feature us on her social media..."

"And that husband of hers might invest?" Mom completes my thought.

"It's a long shot, but it's the best one we've got right now." I run my fingers over the carefully crafted menu I've attached to the application—our classics with little twists that show creativity without sacrificing tradition.

Mom's quiet for a moment. I can picture her sitting on the balcony of my aunt's condo, the Gulf of Mexico stretching out before her, wrestling with the burden I've just confirmed.

"You always were a fighter." Pride warms her voice. "Just like your grandmama. That woman started cooking from a cart on the street corner with nothing but determination and a cast iron skillet."

"And her recipes are still the backbone of our menu." I smile, thinking of the worn recipe cards stored in the kitchen safe, more valuable than any insurance policy.

"When will you hear about this catering job?"

"They're making decisions next week. The event is in three weeks—tight timeline, but we could handle it." I tap the application. "I'll send it tomorrow morning, after one last review."

"You send it tonight," Mom says firmly. "No more waiting. And you tell them exactly what Mama J's is about—family, tradition, and food that feeds more than just the stomach."

"Yes ma'am." I laugh softly, already reaching for an envelope.

"And Mariah?" Her voice softens. "Don't you carry this alone anymore. We're Jeffries. We face things together."

"I know." My throat tightens. "I just wanted you and Dad to have one week without worrying."

"Well, now I know, and your father doesn't need to. Not yet. You finish that application, and I'll keep him distracted with shuffleboard tournaments. Deal?"

"Deal." I feel the weight on my shoulders lighten, just a fraction. Not gone, but shared. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you more, baby girl. Now go make us proud."

I hang up, immediately pulling the application close. The Saint-Pierres represent everything we need—connections, influence, and respect in both the culinary and business worlds. This isn't just about catering an anniversary party. It could be our lifeline.