Chapter 9 - Reclaiming the Camellia Room
Three months later, May arrived with golden Southern sunshine, blooming magnolias, and warm breeze carrying the sweet scent of jasmine through the streets of New Orleans.
The Camellia Room was filled with soft candlelight once again, but tonight, there were no reporters, no cameras, no toxic threats, and no ruined ice.
It was a quiet Saturday evening. Rosalind had closed the private dining room for a special family celebration: Beauregard’s thirty-sixth birthday and the formal announcement of the Andre Vance Memorial Nursing Scholarship, funded by a generous donation from Beauregard’s newly released trust fund.
Fifteen close friends, church members, and family colleagues gathered around the long mahogany table, dressed in elegant evening attire. The red roses stood tall in crystal vases, and their gentle perfume filled the warm room.
I sat at the head of the table in a navy silk gown, wearing Andre’s pearl necklace. At my right sat Beauregard, looking handsome, relaxed, and truly happy for the first time in years. He had spent the last two months working on a major historic restoration project in the French Quarter, throwing his heart into his architectural career with renewed passion.
Rosalind emerged from the kitchen doors, leading four waiters carrying a massive, stunning three-tiered silver display.
The guests applauded as the waiters placed it gently in the center of the table.
It was a spectacular seafood tower: giant Louisiana king crab legs, oysters on crushed ice, fresh gulf shrimp, delicate claws, and lemon halves wrapped in crisp white gauze. At the very top tier sat a magnificent baked lobster, prepared in the classic French style Andre had loved.
Rosalind filled our champagne flutes with chilled vintage crystal champagne and raised her glass high.
"To Andre," Rosalind said, her voice rich with affection. "Whose memory brings us together, and whose strength lives on in the family he loved."
"To Andre!" the guests toasted, lifting their glasses into the soft candlelight.
Beauregard turned to me, his glass raised, a deep, genuine smile lighting up his eyes. "To Mom," he said softly, his voice carrying across the quiet room. "The strongest woman I know. Thank you for protecting me when I couldn't protect myself."
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I clicked my glass against his, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that washed away every trace of the winter’s pain.
"To family," I said quietly. "The kind that endures."
