As they made their way through the crowd she wondered, just for a moment, whether people in the restaurant assumed they were a couple. She knew she did when she spotted a pair holding hands. She also knew she liked that thought about her and Jackson, probably a little too much.
They reached the empty table and sat down. Jackson held up two fingers to someone unseen behind Carla’s back, and then turned his attention back to her.
“You were saying something about marketing,” he said, straight faced but with eyes sparkling. “To get people in here?”
“Okay, so maybe they don’t need it right now,” she conceded, shrugging off the empty feeling she’d gotten when he released her hand. “But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t think about it. What about the future? Companies should always have a strategic business plan to map out their vision. They ought to be thinking five, ten years down the road.” She realized this was the perfect segue to talk about Rivard Research. She was supposed to be getting him to sign on as a Bartlett client, after all. “Your company, for example. Do you have a strategic business plan?”
He frowned. “What do you think?”
“Well, okay. But you need one.” She warmed to her topic. Strategic business plans were something she knew a lot about. “Take the restaurant business as an example. It’s a volatile industry. Today’s hotspot is tomorrow’s dud. If they want to keep the kind of crowd level they have tonight, they’ve got to have a plan.”
“And you think a research lab needs that, too?” “Of course.”
“Did you learn that in grad school?” His fingers idly toyed with the salt shaker but he kept his gaze focused on her.
“Among other things.”
“Such as?”
She thought back to her course curriculum. She’d gotten her MBA three years ago, but the classes remained fresh in her mind. Her 4.0 GPA had been hard earned.
“Well, such as financial accounting, managerial statistics, operational management, marketing management.”
“How about psychology? Is that on the curriculum?”
“Psychology?” She shook her head. “No, why would it be?”
Jackson leaned forward in his seat, facing her with the studied, intent look that was beginning to give her some trepidation. “This place has been here for three generations. Les’s grandfather started it, a French Creole whose family has been in this parish since the nineteenth century. Les’s father took over from his father, then passed it down to Les. They’ve never done any marketing, or promotions, or hired a public relations firm because they don’t have to. Because what matters is this is a great place. It’s got the right music, food, and ambiance that keeps people coming back.”
Jackson looked around the room, taking it in with a sweep of his head. “The crowd level here tonight is no fluke and it doesn’t matter that it’s Friday night. It’s packed like this every night. Les and his family understand what it takes to make a restaurant right, and it’s what you have here. That’s what I mean about psychology. Understand what makes people tick. It doesn’t matter if you do all the marketing in the world. If the place isn’t good, people won’t come.”
At that moment, the unseen waitress to whom Jackson had signaled moments ago arrived with drinks. She set them down and handed them menus, saying she’d return in a minute to take their orders.
Carla looked down at the glass before her. The liquid inside was blue.
“A blue bayou,” Jackson explained. “It’s made with blue Curaçao and vodka.” He lifted his glass and tilted it toward her. “À votre santé.”
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses and she tasted the drink. It was actually quite good, both sweet and tart. And strong.
“Better not have too many of these or I’ll be under the table.”
“I limit it to one myself,” Jackson agreed. “Especially since I’m driving.”
Carla opened her menu to study the options but noticed Jackson ignoring his.
“I take it you know what there is to eat here.”
“There’s nothing I haven’t tried,” he admitted.
She closed her own menu and laid it aside. “In that case, why don’t you order for both of us? That way I’m sure to get the right thing.”
“You trust me that much, do you?”
“Well,” she laughed, “I’m out here in the middle of nowhere, on a pitch black night, with absolutely no idea how to get back to the facility. If not for you, I may be lost forever. So yeah, I think I’ll trust you to get me some good grub.”
Her humor made him smile, his soft lips curving upward, eyes sparkling in the light, and Carla had the same reaction to it now as she did before. He left her breathless.
The waitress came back and Jackson ordered for them both, speaking in French too rapid for Carla to keep up. She had no idea what he ordered. For all she knew, she could end up with a plate full of braised intestines and boiled cow brain. Or — she shuddered at the thought — rattlesnake stew.
Once she left, Jackson apologized to Carla for speaking French, explaining he hadn’t meant to exclude her but it had been a necessary precaution.
“Our waitress,” he cocked his head toward where the girl had walked away, “has slipped up when I’ve ordered in English. She knows a bit, but we’ve got a better chance for success when you tell her what you want in French.”
“I don’t mind,” Carla assured him, “but I’m trusting you weren’t doing it because you were secretly ordering me haggis.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “In a French Creole restaurant?”
“I know, I know. But still. The thought of eating sheep’s organs doesn’t do much for my appetite.”
“I promise you, haggis is not among tonight’s fare.”
She took another sip of her drink. The alcohol buzzed through her veins, making her feel wonderfully mellow. She sat back in her chair, grabbed hold by the relaxed feeling settling in her blood, caused in part by the drink, in part by the surroundings — the music, the aromas, and the smokin’ hot scientist sitting across the table.
They talked casually, about nothing in particular, and the minutes flew by. Before she knew it their waitress was back, weighed down by a gigantic platter of food.
“Bon appétit,” she said, setting it before them. The most incredible aromas Carla had ever smelled filled the air between them. She closed her eyes and inhaled, suddenly immersed in the scent of garlic, onions, cayenne pepper, sweet basil, and oregano.
“This looks and smells fantastic,” she said, unable to conceal the smile from her face.
“I hope you’re hungry, because we’ve got food for an army. I wanted you to have a real sample of authentic Louisiana cooking.”
Carla set her napkin in her lap, listening to Jackson as he pointed to each item and explained what they were.
“Over here is deep fried okra. This is boiled crawfish accompanied by maque choux. Then we have pork boudin, bite-sized muffalettas, red beans, rice, Creole jambalaya, and boiled shrimp with remoulade.”
She looked over everything, mouth watering. “I don’t know where to begin. Some of this stuff I’ve never heard of.”
“Think of it as part of your fear assignment. Venturing into unknown food territory.”
“Unfortunately for me, eating food is never a problem. Or never very scary,” she commented casually, not thinking much about it since her mind lingered on the choices before her.
Jackson surprised her when he looked away from the food and straight at her. “Why do you cut yourself down?” he asked.
She looked up from the platter, fork held in mid- air.
“Cut myself down? I’m not.” She put the crawfish on her plate and shrugged. “At the same time I’m a realist, and I’m aware I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
“According to whom?”
“Well…I guess, according to TV and movies. And fashion magazines. Pictures of skinny celebrities are everywhere. Thin is in, at least for women. That’s the look celebrated and admired.”
Jackson speared some okra and shook his head. “I’m surprised you’re such a follower. Especially with your background.”
She set her fork down and frowned. “What do you mean?”
He rested his arms across the table top and leaned in to her. “You’ve got a former pro basketball player for a mother, a father who runs marathons for fun, brothers who excel in every sport they’ve ever tried, and then there’s you, who admits she’s not cut out for sports at all and seems perfectly comfortable with it. I didn’t detect either embarrassment or envy when you were telling me about your family. But yet you compare yourself to unknown stick-like movie actresses and indicate you don’t quite measure up.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in, while he slowly chewed some okra. “I just didn’t expect to hear something like that from you.”
Carla sat back, startled. Was there truth in what he said? Was she secretly embarrassed about her weight, to the point of not even admitting the feeling to herself? “I’m not sure what to say,” she finally responded.
“Maybe you’re right. I guess I never realized it.”
He gave her that stare of intensity like a scientist analyzing data. “You’re a beautiful woman, Carla. It would be a shame if you weren’t aware of it.”