French Quarter Kisses

by Zuri Day

  After more than a decade of Lisette being the only female he trusted, he’d opened up to Roz and shared parts of himself few others had seen, if anyone. And how had she repaid this trust? By writing an article about news so shocking he’d yet to fully process it, and printing it for anyone with an internet connection to read. Done so without even bothering to ask if telling his story was okay. Because she knew it wasn’t, and never would be. Did that matter? No! She’d taken a private story, his story, and used it to raise her profile. She’d exploited him for his celebrity, planned to capitalize on his fame.

  Pierre slumped against the chair, numb with the myriad of emotions flooding his soul. Anger. Hurt. Disappointment. Disillusion. The usual suspects. But there was one that surprised him. Loneliness. A loner by nature, he’d long felt comfortable with and had even preferred his own company. Kept his own counsel. Sharing with Roz was a new experience for him, because not only was she a friend, or so he’d thought, but his lover. Soul mate, even. A woman who’d made him think about the rest of his life, and her being in it. Rosalyn Arnaud. His Roz. The woman who seemed to understand the pain of losing someone, of having a person ripped from your life in an instant. And not only to understand, but to care.

  His movements mechanical, Pierre slowly scrolled through the rest of the messages. He responded to Cathy. Yes, prepare a statement. To his handlers at Chow Channel and Intense Energy. Yes, it’s true. No, I didn’t authorize it. Publicist will be in touch. To Riviera. Thanks for your concern, and for taking over at the restaurant. Shocked, processing, but will get through it. He also passed on a message for the restaurant manager, Ed. To Buddha. Of all people, you can best imagine how I’m feeling right now. Will call when stateside. After sending messages to his personal manager and attorney, he revisited the message from Roz and clicked on the link. Didn’t get past the first paragraph. Couldn’t. An article that began by portraying his mother as a victim couldn’t end well for him. Especially one written by a woman who’d acted as though she were on his and Lisette’s side but had spun this story. What had happened to the straight shooter he’d fallen in love with at the Bayou Ball?

  Wait...what?

  There was no denying it. He loved her, and from that night. Pierre slid the phone into his shirt pocket and walked out to the yacht’s stern, the only other spot on the luxurious vessel where no one was smiling, laughing and offering champagne for the success of their shoot. Before boarding the yacht, Pierre had felt like celebrating. Now? Not so much. He’d received a one-two punch that would have felled a weaker man. A story, now public, of a woman who had betrayed him way back when, written by one who’d deceived him now.

  * * *

  He hadn’t wanted to deal with airports and crowds. His personal manager arranged a charter flight. On the way home Pierre spoke with his publicist, sous chef and business partners, but mostly with Lisette. Her phone had begun ringing within hours of NO Beat going on sale. Copies were being circulated around the campus. Most people were curious and understanding, but she’d begun to feel the pressure of being in the public eye and had gotten a hotel room. She shared that Roz had found their grandmother’s remains, but he was so consumed with Roz’s betrayal that the news barely registered. He’d hung up, braced himself and finally read the article. While he and his sister were mentioned, the story was all about Alana. The way it had been for years, Pierre thought. She’d stayed consistent, and continued being the selfish person who left her children but saved herself. There was one person he didn’t call. Roz.

  Pierre went straight to his restaurant. Rode his motorcycle and entered through a back door. Riviera was the first to see him.

  “Chef. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I’ve got a business to run. Where else would I be?”

  He walked into the kitchen with an authority that came naturally, but a bravado he didn’t feel. When he spoke, however, he pulled off the act.

  “Hey, everybody. Pull your food off the fire. Come around.”

  The staff quickly complied.

  “Listen up because I’m only going to say this once. It’s about the story in NO Beat. What’s true is that my mom abandoned my sister and I when I was fifteen, and that she has resurfaced. Why, I don’t know. I’ve not talked to her. And I don’t want to talk about her. So here at Easy Creole Cuisine it’s business as usual. Comprende?”

  Riviera smiled, held up his hand for a fist bump. “Heard, Chef. Don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”

  For the next two days, Easy Creole Cuisine wasn’t easy for the workforce. The restaurant had been slammed almost from the beginning, but the increased interest in an already popular celebrity chef only added to the pressure. It didn’t help that Pierre had been spotted leaving Thursday night, and his secret side entrance exposed. He arrived Friday to a horde of reporters at that door, even though he’d purposely come early. He’d smiled, pushed his way through that nightmare, then put Buddha on private bodyguard duty to ensure he wouldn’t get mobbed like that again. He left the restaurant that night without incident, said goodbye to Buddha at the door. It wasn’t until twenty-five minutes later that he realized the bodyguard should have followed him home.

  He pulled the motorcycle into its garage space, kicked down the stand and hung his helmet on the bars. Long strides made short work of the distance between him and the enemy. Roz, camping out in his courtyard. How dare she?

  “What do you want?”

  There was a shocked pause as the enemy absorbed the curt question. “What kind of question is that? I’ve called, texted, emailed and been worried sick. You’ve been back for two days.” He watched eyes filled with fake concern search his face. “I don’t blame you for being upset, Pierre, but if you read any of my messages, you’d know this was out of my control.”

  “Which part? Writing the story, telling your boss about it or having it published?”

  “That’s just it. I didn’t write—”

  “Stop! Don’t even go there, Roz, and try and deny it. The story was published in NO Beat. You’re the only one at that paper who knew about my mom. You dragged the details out of me, went looking for her when nobody asked you to, believed every lame excuse she offered for leaving, and then without caring how I felt about it, put all of that bullshit in the paper for everyone to see!”

  “Pierre, I—”

  “Why’d you do it, Roz? Knowing my history with women who’ve lied to me, how could you betray me? Did you do it for money? Is my mom’s husband rich or famous? Did you do it for the paper, for your career, as a come up? Or were you seeking your own fifteen minutes of fame, found out that it wasn’t bright enough sharing my spotlight and went in search of your own?”

  “What you’re assuming is not what happened.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “If we could just go inside, sit down and—”

  Pierre made the harsh sound of a buzzer. “Wrong answer, traitor. Your welcome mat’s been pulled. Your number will be deleted. I’d advise you to lose mine, too, because anything you had to say to me should have happened in a conversation before you deceived me.”

  After searing her with a look that dared her to follow, Pierre stormed into his house and shut the door. Before she could talk him out of his anger. Before those doe-like eyes could convince him that she really was sorry, that somehow a major mistake had been made, one that would absolve her of the culpability in making his private life public and shattering his heart.

  Chapter 24

  Heading into the office on Monday morning, Roz was only slightly less dazed than when she’d been verbally butchered by Chef Pierre. Obviously, he’d not read her later emails, especially the one that clarified Paige as the story’s author in case he’d passed over the byline. That fact even though there were others that placed Roz Arnaud right in the crosshairs, namely the one where had she not mentioned anything to Andy—nada until all her research was d
one, including running everything by Pierre to know how he felt about it—meant she shouldn’t be a suddenly single journalist on her way to resign from the job.

  She pulled into NO Beat’s parking lot. Her phone rang. She squelched the desire/hope/prayer/fantasy that it was Pierre.

  “Hey, Stefanie.”

  “What? No Biff?”

  “I saw Pierre.”

  “Uh-oh. Didn’t go well?”

  “Major understatement. But I can’t talk now. Just pulled into NO Beat.”

  “Okay. Call me when you get off work.”

  “That’ll be in about an hour. I’m resigning.” Even the silence was silent. “A lot happened while you and your fiancé frolicked in sand on the beach.”

  “Phone me back as soon as you can.”

  The call gave Roz strength that was sorely needed. She wouldn’t have a job after this impromptu meeting, but she had a best friend to call back. Once in the building she headed directly for the office at the end of the hall. That Paige was in there was no surprise. Roz had ignored her since the story broke and had no plans to change that position.

  “Excuse me, Andy, do you have a minute?”

  “Later, Roz. Paige and I are discussing—”

  “Actually, Andy, there’s a phone call that I need to return. Can I send what I have so far and discuss further after you’ve read it?”

  “Sure.”

  Paige offered a hesitant smile. “Morning, Roz.”

  There was no hesitation in Roz’s reply, directed at Andy. “This won’t take long.”

  The door had barely closed before Roz pulled a single sheet of paper from her tote and placed it on Andy’s desk.

  Andy reached for it. “What’s this?”

  “My resignation, effective immediately.”

  “Ah, come on, Roz. Sit down. Let’s talk this out.”

  “I’ll have a seat but there’s no changing my mind. Some ethical boundaries have been crossed that are beyond what I find acceptable. Printing a story I initiated but pulled on moralistic grounds was your prerogative. Leaving your company is mine.”

  “Morals? You sure you want to go there?”

  “I already did, which is why this is my last day.”

  “You know how small our world is, Roz. Did you really think you could date the city’s golden boy and have no one find out?”

  A surprising revelation for sure, but Roz kept her poise.

  “Given that I accompanied him to his mentor’s much-publicized anniversary, I was obviously not hiding.”

  “You were obviously not thinking rationally either. Had that story been about anyone besides a guy you were screwing—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “—you would have typed up a story twice as long as the one published and demanded a banner covering the top of the page.”

  Roz had stood as he talked and now headed to the door. She had to—couldn’t guarantee her continued professionalism otherwise.

  “Roz, wait.” Andy stood and headed toward her. “I didn’t meant that!”

  Maybe not, but Roz meant what was written on that paper. Her head remained high as she walked out the door, dialing Stefanie as she crossed to her car.

  “Wow, that was fast” was Stefanie’s greeting.

  “Leaving kept me from going to jail.”

  Roz shared what had happened on the way to Gee’s, then imagined Andy’s face on the punching bag as she put her body through a rigorous workout. Back at the bungalow she took a long hot shower and washed her hair. Her mother called. Roz told her what had happened at work and received the kind of support and encouragement that only a mom could provide. The conversation buoyed her spirits enough for her to fire up the laptop, update her résumé and send out a few. Unable to decide on which snack food would make her feel better, she sat down with a bowl of popcorn, M&Ms and peanuts combined, found a marathon of Friends and tried to borrow their feel-good. Two hours later, with Mom’s reassurance fading and her spirits continuing to spiral down, Roz remembered another cure for the doldrums that had never failed her. She jumped from the couch, grabbed her purse and hoped their track record would hold.

  * * *

  Pierre vowed to forget her. Put Roz in the past with other disappointments and people who’d failed him. People like Alana LeBlanc, now Lana Stern. The nonstop pace of the busy weekend had helped with that. But London had been Chow Channel’s year-end taping and due to his increased popularity—Roz’s antics notwithstanding—his people were renegotiating his contract with Intense Energy. So now he sat with the last thing he needed, time on his hands. Reaching for his phone, he scrolled the contacts for who he could call. In the months with the new business and Roz, he’d gone AWOL on business partners and silent on the few individuals who counted as friends. He couldn’t feel bad when his attempts were met with two assistants, three voice mails and one full mailbox. What about a night in New York? One thing he loved about the city that never slept was that a perfectly good time could be had alone. He began a search on the internet for Broadway shows that ran on Monday. But his heart wasn’t in it. He thought about his friend’s jazz club, but just as quickly dismissed that idea. The last time he’d gone there, Roz had been with him. Her scent probably still covered the city.

  The phone rang in his hand, an unexpected sound that gratefully jolted him out of memories of the woman who’d felt so good in his arms. The number on his screen had a New Orleans area code, but it wasn’t a number he recognized. No way would he risk a reporter’s call. Tossing his phone down, he walked to the fully stocked bar that anchored the game room. Remembering the goose that had cooked him instead of the other way around, he quickly bypassed the bottles and opened the fridge. A variety of beers lined the shelves. He picked one that was alcohol free, popped the top and took a swig. Checking out a room he rarely entered, he brushed his hand over a blackjack and poker table on his way to a contemporary pool table made of stainless steel. He picked up a stick, lined it up with the cue ball and was interrupted by the phone again, his message indicator. Curious as to which media outlet had left a voice mail, he palmed the phone with one hand and hit the speaker button to hear who’d called.

  “This message is for that man who fancies himself a cook, and thinks he knows a thing or two about crawfish.”

  Pierre almost dropped his cell. He wasn’t sure what shocked him more, that Ma had challenged his cooking skills or that she’d called him in the first place. He started to return the call, and then got a better idea.

  * * *

  “Ma, tell me you didn’t call him just now.” Roz had just spent almost thirty minutes on the hallowed ground of Ma’s kitchen, sharing what had happened with her and Pierre.

  “I didn’t call him just now.” Ma didn’t wilt under Roz’s intense gaze, but the astute journalist still didn’t believe her.

  “I called him again just now. I read the article, baby.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did, first chance I got.” Ma’s smile, filled with compassion and understanding, was as warm as a hug. “Felt like you needed an ear more than a mouth when you first got here. Anyway, I read it and called him before I put down the paper. My heart goes out to that young man.”

  “How’d you have his number?”

  “You don’t have to be a journalist to get information.” Ma’s gray eyes twinkled, taking years off her face. “Women are born with the ability to investigate. I called the restaurant. Got a nice young man, a Mexican fellow—”

  “Riviera.”

  Ma nodded as she headed out of the kitchen, Roz right behind. “—and told him who I was and why I was calling. He gave me the number. I called it. You being here reminded me that Pierre didn’t answer and never called back. So I called him again.”

  Ma reached for dirty dishes on a recently vacated table.

  Roz
snatched up empty glasses and followed Ma into the kitchen. “Why would you do that when I’m here, after what I told you?”

  “I have my reasons.” Ma deposited plates in a soapy sink and crossed to the stove.

  Roz didn’t ask what those were. In her mind, none were good enough to invite another showdown. She crossed the small room and gave the woman a hug.

  “I know you meant well, but I’m leaving.”

  “Suit yourself. But in five minutes I’ll be ready to dish up praline cream.”

  Roz’s favorite dessert in the world. Her mouth watered as she suppressed a groan. “You play dirty, Ma.”

  “Look, baby. Pierre didn’t answer, so I left a message. He hasn’t been back here since that last time with you, so there is little chance he’ll come tonight. And if he does, he’ll surely call first. So why don’t you go wash your hands and try to relax while I fix your treat.”

  Roz did as Ma suggested and tried to relax. But she couldn’t. Thoughts of her early-morning encounter with Pierre were as upsetting now as when the event had actually occurred. She wanted to enjoy the dessert, but doubted she could get it past the lump in her throat.

  “Never mind about that cream, Ma. I think I’d better go.” Roz reached for her tote stashed under the table.

  “Too late.” Ma walked toward her with a bowl of heaven. “You can’t turn me down once the food’s dished up.”

  Roz pursed her lips and tried to maintain a frown, even as the smell of toasted pecans and warm caramel drizzle tickled her taste buds and forced up the corners of her mouth. She accepted the spoon Ma held, dug through layers of cookie crust, maple filling, pecan caramel crumble and homemade vanilla ice cream. “I’ll say it again, Ma,” Roz began, eyes closed as she savored the flavors. “You do not play fair.”