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“Yes, we did. Jackson came in to sample my spring menu, which was inspired by Boudreaux Bourbon. Didn’t he mention it?” I said when Brig looked startled. “All the recipes are made with your family’s bourbon.” Brig looked as astonished as his wife had when I’d taken her hand. “No,” he said faintly, gazing at me with wide eyes. “No, he didn’t mention it.” I glanced at Jackson, who was gloomily pushing a grape back and forth across his empty plate with a knife. “It’s true. In fact, he threatened to sue me for copyright infringement on the family’s trademark.” Clemmy, in the middle of a swallow of soup, coughed. She dropped her spoon, and it clattered against the bowl. “Oh! Are you all right?” Her nurse scowled at me and began petting Clemmy’s chest with a napkin, blotting at little spla
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