“Maybe some extra croissants. I’ve got one more guest arriving today.” He always ordered a bit more than he needed. But the B and B was doing better than expected, and he liked the idea of spreading the wealth around, helping the local economy.
Loretta made a quick note on a small pad she always carried in her back pocket. “Croissants.”
“You want to come in for some breakfast? There’s always room for one more.”
“Two more,” Zara pointed out. She was a stickler for accuracy. “Can we, Mama?”
Loretta wavered. “I guess I have time for a quick cup of coffee, though we’ve already had breakfast. And there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Luc’s interest was piqued. He’d been wondering for a while now if there was any way to further his acquaintance with Loretta. When he’d made casual inquiries about her, he’d been told by more than one person that Loretta didn’t date. Her husband had died in prison when Zara was just a baby. Granted, a tragic relationship like that was enough to put any woman off men for a while. But nine years?
Maybe if she got to know him better… Having a beautiful woman like Loretta for company would sure make his enforced stay in Indigo a lot more pleasurable.
Loretta and Zara seated themselves at the kitchen’s tiny bistro table with coffee and orange juice, respectively.
“It’s true what they say, you do make the best coffee in town,” Loretta said after one long, appreciative sip. “It’s certainly better than what they serve at the general store. That sludge is undrinkable after ten o’clock.”
“What about the Blue Moon Diner? And Marjo Savoy makes a good cup of coffee.”
“The Blue Moon runs a close second to this,” Loretta insisted. “And Marjo’s coffee is good, I’ll admit that. But…”
“But you have to wait until someone dies to get a taste of it.” Marjo owned the local funeral home.
Zara apparently thought Luc’s observation was hilarious, because she burst into a fit of giggles until orange juice came out her nose.
“Wow, something must have tickled your funny bone,” Loretta said as she wiped Zara’s face with a napkin.
“I like Luc. He’s funny.”
“He is funny,” Loretta agreed. “But his name is Mr. Carter. You know the rules.”
“Sorry,” Zara said, unrepentant.
“Can she call me Luc if I give her permission?” Luc asked Loretta.
“It’s not really proper.”
Luc, who’d been raised in Las Vegas, would never get used to the old-world manners of the South. “How about Mr. Luc?”
Loretta frowned.
“Sir Luc?”
The frown wavered.
“Lord Luc? Saint Luc?”
Finally she laughed. “Somehow I doubt ‘Saint Luc’ is appropriate. All right, fine, she can call you Luc.” She looked at Zara. “But not in front of anyone else.”
Luc took the frittata out of the oven, then checked his watch. Hell.
“I have to set the table.”
“Can I help?” Zara asked. “I know where the silverware goes…Luc.” As she hopped off her chair, she flashed her mother a smart-aleck smile. Loretta narrowed her eyes slightly, silently warning Zara to behave, then followed them into the dining room. Figuring she wanted to be put to work, he handed Loretta a stack of plates.
“Six settings.” He got out napkins, bowls, water and juice glasses. Zara followed her mother around the table, precisely placing the heavy silver flatware beside each plate.
“These dishes are beautiful,” Loretta said. “Did they come with the house?”
“Unfortunately, no. A few things were stored in the attic, but most everything of value was moved out when my grandmother’s family closed down the house. Grand-mère provided a few family heirlooms for authenticity-like the chandelier in the parlor-but I had to start new.”
“You did a great job. I only vaguely recall what this place was like when I was a little girl, but the wicker and cypress furniture seems just right.”
“Thanks.” He’d enjoyed furnishing La Petite Maison more than he would have thought. In fact, he’d enjoyed the whole B and B experience far more than would have seemed possible a year ago. He hadn’t been looking forward to two years’ banishment in Indigo, away from the big-city lights he’d thrived on his whole life. But he’d have done anything to get back into the good graces of his aunt, cousins and grandmother, and to make up in some small measure for the chaos he’d deliberately created in their lives.
Fortunately, the grim, solitary life he’d anticipated had never come to pass. The townspeople had embraced him on the strength of his blood ties to the Robichaux family. He’d quickly become a part of the community, and everyone had pitched in to help with the renovation of the cabin, built by the founders of Indigo, the Valois family. They’d offered him the names of reliable workers and suppliers. They’d been eager for him to open La Petite Maison, welcoming anything that would bring tourists to town.
He wondered if they would feel the same about him if they knew the truth about his past.
“So, here’s what I wanted to ask you,” Loretta said, her voice shaking slightly as she placed juice glasses in front of each plate. “You know I’ve volunteered to coordinate the food for the music festival, right?”
Zara, her silverware duties completed, applied herself to folding the linen napkins into perfect rectangles.
“The music festival is all anyone talks about these days,” Luc said. “I know what everybody’s doing.”
“Well…I need help. I had a committee, but Carolee went and had her baby two weeks early, and Justine Clemente sprained her ankle, which doesn’t make a difference anyway because she couldn’t accomplish the simplest task. Rufus’s expertise is in eating, not cooking-”
Luc took the juice glass Loretta was holding before her wild gesturing caused breakage. “Loretta. Just tell me what you need. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Well, I opened my mouth and said I was going to put on a full Cajun dinner for the musicians the night before the festival, and charge fifty dollars a head for anybody else who wants to mingle with the VIPs. But I can’t find anybody to fix the food for anything like a reasonable price. We’ve already advertised it. Forty tickets have been sold.”
“I don’t know anything about Cajun food,” Luc confessed, “except how to eat it.”
“I know, but you have a cousin, right? Melanie Marchand, the sous-chef at the Hotel Marchand in New Orleans?”
Oh, hell. He would do anything in his power to help Loretta with her problem. But ask his cousin to cook up dinner for dozens of people for free? He’d be uncomfortable enough asking any of his family for even a small favor. A huge commitment like this was unthinkable.
“I’d love to help you, Loretta, but I can’t.”
Her face fell. “I’ll do the asking. If you could just introduce us, I’d be forever grateful.”
“I really don’t think I can help.” How did he explain to Loretta that his relationship with Melanie-with all of his cousins-was strained at best? Although they had acknowledged him as their cousin, he no longer felt welcome in their hotel. They’d almost lost the Hotel Marchand because of him.
“Okay.” Loretta flashed him a quick, false smile. “Well, it was worth asking.”
“Melanie’s really nice,” Luc added. “Have you tried calling her?”
“I’ve left a couple of messages. But I wouldn’t expect her to return my call. I’ve contacted a dozen chefs, at least. Those who did get back to me aren’t able to help. The festival is only a few weeks away. They say there’s not enough time.”
Zara, he noticed, was watching him closely. Was he going to be her mother’s white knight, riding to the rescue, slaying dragons, producing fifty servings of gumbo, étouffée and jambalaya out of thin air?
“Let me think on it,” he said, mostly because he couldn’t bear to say no. “Maybe I can come up with something.”