by Doreen Alsen
“Around three thirty. The lunch rush is over and we don’t need to prep dinner yet. Is there anything special you need?”
“There’s a special flour mix, with a couple of different flours in it. And cottonseed oil. We have to have cottonseed oil.”
“I’m not sure we can get that around here, but let me check.”
“Other than that, it’s yeast and powdered sugar.”
“That I’ve got. I’ll get stuff together and we can dig in tomorrow afternoon!” The pot on the stove started to bubble over. “Oops!” Alma went back to stirring the liquid in the pan.
“I won’t keep you from your work,” Angelique told her. “Thank you!”
“No problem.”
So, she’d put the first part of her plan in place. First, make the beignets. After that, she would invite him over for coffee and beignets al fresco in the morning when he came out to walk Chester.
Then, if a little breakfast on the patio worked, if he didn’t run away screaming when he learned who she was, she’d invite him in for dinner, Grand-mère’s gumbo, preceded by Lucien’s Oysters Hope. Champagne and something outrageous and chocolate to finish it off.
No going to bed yet. She wanted to spin this out and enjoy courting him.
She smiled as she walked the long trek home from the restaurant to her cottage. Warmth slipped out of her heart and surrounded it.
Something very close to hope enfolded her in its loving and nurturing arms.
****
It turned out that making beignets was very hot and greasy work. They’d overworked the dough the first time and made doughnuts the shape and consistency of rocks.
And wasn’t that sexy?
The second batch was better, but only marginally. Alma hadn’t been able to find cottonseed oil and the substitution of vegetable oil meant some changes to the recipe.
“I’m putting in an order to this place in Boston where I can get anything I want and we’re getting cottonseed oil. I told Betts and Birdie McCorkle that we were putting beignets on the menu and they about swooned. And of course, Keen nearly had a kitten. Cops, even the ones on leave, do love them some doughnuts. Not that we can call these babies doughnuts.” Alma cut the new batch of dough they’d made into squares. “Check the temp of the deep fryers, make sure they’re at exactly 370 degrees.”
Angelique did as she was told.
As she imagined her plan, she saw Chester lumbering up her steps, Tim following him, her smiling like a Renaissance painting of a Madonna, which she’d learned about that one almost completed semester at Barrett University in Addington, and asking if he wanted a taste of New Orleans. She’d set the table on her patio with a pretty cloth and some colorful fruit in a cut glass bowl.
She sighed as she checked the thermometer of the fry-o-lator. There it was, 370 degrees. “It’s ready.”
Alma gently lowered the squares of pastry dough into the oil. “I think these will turn out right.”
Angelique held her breath. “I hope so.”
Alma patted her on the back. “If it doesn’t, we’ll just try again.”
Angelique wasn’t sure if her lower back and feet would hold out. She did some twists and bends. She’d say manual labor killed a person, but she remembered the days of wearing scanty underwear while standing in nearly impossible poses on four-inch stilettos.
Why was this worse?
It must be the sensible rubber soled shoes. Who knew shoes could be this ugly? She supposed she must have known as she’d worked in the front of the house in restaurants for years, but she’d thought those shoes had been in her nightmares.
Her leg and lower back muscles were used to heels. High heels. Sky-high heels. Her calves were cramping up, just like they did when she went to bed after she’d taken her shoes off.
Sometimes it got so bad, she’d wear her heels to bed so her legs didn’t cramp and she could sleep.
This flat shoe thing was just a new, unpleasant phase of her life. Yet another big girl panty moment.
Soon she’d get a better job and be able to wear beautiful, feet-killing shoes.
She giggled because she couldn’t wait.
Chapter Twelve
Angelique set a small table on her patio. She covered it with a cheerful blue cloth covered with daisies and placed a small vase of wildflowers in the center of it. She found some mismatched, but charming, antique china plates, cups, and saucers and put them on the table. She had a pitcher of hand-squeezed orange juice on ice and warm beignets in her oven. She peeked through the hedge separating the terraces, waiting for a glimpse of Tim and his dog.
She even bought some gourmet dog food for Chester.
She also decided to do something she’d never, ever done before, to meet a man without wearing make-up. Well, okay, she did throw some mascara on, she couldn’t quit cold turkey, but she didn’t try to hide the scar. Grimacing, she pushed the black-rimmed hipster glasses up her nose.
She rubbed her hand over her stomach. She was totally terrified.
Wearing her favorite sundress, pale pink with raspberry-colored peonies, she felt pretty confident she could get him to join her for breakfast. The guy had to eat, right?
She heard his porch door slide open and Chester galumph out. She put her hand over her stomach, trying to tame the butterflies knocking around in there. After kicking off her sandals, she bopped down her stairs as casually as she could to intercept him.
“Hi.” Smiling, she clasped her hands in front of her.
“Hey.” Tim stopped as Chester ran along the beach. He hadn’t shaved yet and his T-shirt fit his impressive physique like a second skin.
“I wanted to thank you for dinner the other night, and I thought maybe, if you haven’t had breakfast yet, you might want to join me.”
“Breakfast?”
“Yes, that meal you eat at the beginning of the day. I got a craving for some New Orleans food and made my Grand-mère’s recipe for beignets. I made way too many. You’d be helping me out as I can’t possibly eat them all.”
“Beignets, eh?”
“Better than the ones from the Café du Monde.”
“Well, I’ll just have to test them out, won’t I? Let me call the dog.”
“I’ve got breakfast for him, too.” She felt her face flush.
“He’s a lucky dog.” He whistled and Chester stopped in his tracks and barreled back.
They headed up to her patio and Angelique pointed to the table. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back with the beignets and coffee. There’s some orange juice there if you want some.”
She made short work of grabbing the food and returned to her little party.
Sitting on her delicate chair, Tim looked like Gulliver at a Lilliputian tea party. She put the covered plate with the doughnuts on the table. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Please.”
She poured then sat. “You take it black, right?”
Tim smiled. “You remember.”
She grimaced. “It was a memorable morning. Oh, I almost forgot!”
Picking up the dish of food for Chester, she put it on the stone floor. “Here you go, boy.”
Chester snarfled then attacked the dish muzzle first.
“He likes his food.” She scratched behind his ears.
Tim laughed. “That he does.”
She uncovered the plate of deep fried delights. “Take one. Let me know what you think.”
He did and took a bite. It crunched like it was supposed to and left a trail of powdered sugar on his lower lip. After he chewed and swallowed, he licked the sugar off his mouth.
Oh. My. She could totally recall all the other ways he’d used his tongue the other night.
She had to clear her throat. “So?” Her voice squeaked a little.
“Excellent. Just as advertised.” He popped the rest of the beignet in his mouth.
She took one, put it on her plate, and tore a small piece off. “Listen, I had an ulterior motive putting this all together.”
“Really?” His eyes squinted a little. “Want to tell me about it?”
“No.” She gave him the smile that she knew left men weak in the knees. “You have to guess.”
****
Guess? What the hell? He had a myriad of options playing out in his mind.
All of them sexual. None of them he thought she’d welcome.
Or would she? He used to be able to read women and know what they wanted before they knew themselves.
Now? He had trouble reading a grocery list, never mind the fairer sex.
His mouth went dry and he licked his lips. The look she was giving him certainly did raise his temperature and blood pressure more than a little bit. “You’re going to have to help me out here.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Well.” She tore a corner off her beignet and put it in her mouth. “First, I wanted to make it up to you.” She shrugged. “For throwing your breakfast all over you.”
No. Just no. He wasn’t going to talk to her about it. “Apology accepted.”
She smiled. “I owed you a pastry or two. And we’re neighbors. I’d like us to be friendly.”
Friendly? Huh. Just how friendly was she willing to be? “I’d like that, too.”
“Good!” She licked the sugar off the bit of pastry she still held before putting it into her mouth. “Mmmm. Just like Grand-mère used to make.”
“Would that be your grandmother who kept the gators?”
“You remember!”
“That’s not an easy tidbit of information to forget. She did give you a great beignet recipe, though. One worth putting up with the gators.” He toasted her with his coffee cup.
She snorted. The sound didn’t exactly define the word feminine. Still, he loved it. She’d charmed him.
Her quick, winsome smile, her saucy, dark eyes, her grace, and beauty made her a dangerous, sensual presence.
Who could resist her? Not Tim, that was for damn sure.
“But what were they doing there?” he asked her.
“Having breakfast, shoog!” She laughed.
That laugh hinted at a lot more than breakfast. He liked that about her.
He thought of asking her again about her disappearing act the night they went to Mariner’s. However, if he asked her that, she might insist about the, uh, event at the Sea Crest Inn.
He kept his mouth shut.
“You look upset, shoog. Don’t you like breakfast?”
“I like breakfast fine. These,” he picked up another beignet, “are pure sin.” He took a big bite and smiled as he chewed. “Finest kind.”
“I’m glad. I’m not usually a breakfast person, but for you I made an exception. But I’m warning you, I have ulterior motives.”
“Do you now?”
“I want to get to know you better, especially after that kiss the other night.” Her face turned pink and it was adorable.
A low-level hum of arousal surrounded him. “That was a pretty great kiss. We should try it again sometime.”
“I’m hoping we will, but I want to know a few more things about you.”
“Like what?” He stopped himself from sighing. He should have figured out something like this was going to happen.
“Like what do you do all day.”
“What I do?”
“Yes. Like what’s your job and why are you here in Lobster Cove. That kind of thing. I mean I know you spent summers here when you were growing up and you’re taking time off work. I guess I want to know what kind of work you do. Your friends mentioned a book. Are you a writer?” She shrugged. “You can tell me if I’m being too nosy.”
“Hmmmmm.” Okay. To stall or to lie, that was the question. “I guess you could say I’m a kind of writer.” The kind of writer who told stories via photographs, not that he’d tell her that. “What do you do when you’re not in Lobster Cove?”
She looked down at her hands. “I’m between jobs at the moment,” she said.
“What did you do?” That-a-boy! Turn the conversation around to her.
“I was in sales. I’m here looking for the next direction for my life to take.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I have no idea. Right now I’m going with the flow, thanks to my brother letting me borrow his beach house.”
“I was surprised when I heard it’d been sold. Charlie and Violet had lived there since before I was born.”
“Your family was close to them?”
“They were sort of honorary grandparents.” Tim smiled at the memories flooding him. “Charlie always had peppermint candies in his pocket and Violet was always baking something, cookies, muffins, that kind of thing.”
“What about your own grandparents?”
“Down in Massachusetts. My mom’s parents are in assisted living and my dad’s father moved down to the Cape when he retired.”
“Where on the Cape? I’ve never been but I’m told it’s beautiful.”
He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Wellfleet, on the Outer Cape. It is a beautiful place, especially in the off-season. In season it’s packed with people, just like here.”
“I don’t mind the crowds. I’ve mostly lived in cities, so this is different for me.”
“Yeah, not a gator to be seen.”
“Just zombie lobsters.” She shifted in her seat. “Do you want more coffee? Orange juice?”
He cast a glance over to Chester who lay there, the picture of patience as he waited for his walk, and decided Chester could wait a little bit longer.
He stood and came over to Angie’s side of the table. He took her hand and pulled her standing, into his arms. “This is what I want right now.”
Then he kissed her. Her mouth moved under his as she responded to his persuasive lips and tongue as she melted against him.
He ran his hands up and down her slender back, cupped her sweet behind, and pulled her in even closer while his tongue plundered the sweetness of her lips and tongue. He felt himself harden as he rocked her against his pelvis.
As if from far away, he heard a woof. Next thing he knew a very impatient Doberman wedged himself in between Tim and Angie, effectively ending their steamy clinch.
“Okay, Chester,” he said as he rested his forehead against Angie’s. “You want your walk.”
The dog woofed again.
“Maybe you better go take him.”
Chester wagged his stump.
She laughed. “I think that’s a yes.”
“Will you be here when I get back?” Tim wasn’t ready to end the morning.
She glanced at her watch and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have just enough time to clean up and get to work.”
“Do you want help cleaning up?” Please need help.
“No, I’ve got it. Go on. Enjoy your walk.” She raised herself up on tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll talk to you later.”
Chester took that moment to whine like he did when he had some business to conduct.
“Talk to you later,” Tim said. “Let’s go, buddy.”
Chester bolted off her patio. Tim had no choice but to follow.
Chapter Thirteen
Angelique sighed as she tidied up the Sea Crest Inn’s main lobby. Why did people never put the magazines back where they found them?
Some of them were very old, but a few of them weren’t. She picked up a shiny, glossy fashion rag from a few months ago and froze at the sight of her face, her unscarred face, smiling at her on the cover.
It was from her last photo shoot. She’d assumed after all the notoriety, the magazine would not to use her face on its cover.
Yet, there she smiled, larger than life in all her former glossy glory.
She hugged the magazine to her chest, all set to run out and burn it, but then she realized she could run but she couldn’t hide.
“The beignets are a huge success.”
She c
lutched the magazine to her chest. “I’m so glad!
“Betts really wants to thank you for sharing the recipe with Alma. The reviews this morning have been very positive. They’re a hit!”
“That’s so awesome.” Her fake glasses slipped down her nose. When she went to push them up, she dropped the magazine.
Before she could reach down and pick it back up, Birdie beat her to it. Angelique’s heart leapt up into her throat.
True she was dressed down and the picture had been photo-shopped, but still…what if Birdie put two and two together?
She’d been sent to jail for stealing. How would Betts Quinn feel about having a thief working for them?
Not good, she bet.
“Here you go!” Birdie handed her the magazine without looking at the cover. “I’ll let you get back to your work. You’re doing a great job, Angie me-lass. I’m glad we took a chance on you.”
“I’m grateful to have the job.”
“It seems to be working out all around. By the way, I want to let you know that there are going to be some photographers and reporters on the premises next week.”
What? No! The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Why?”
Birdie lifted her eyebrows. “Why? The Sea Crest Inn is being featured in The Boston Globe as one of the top ten destination inns in New England. It’s quite an honor for us.”
Her hands fisted in the magazines. “Oh.”
Birdie squinted at her. “We’ll be after arranging a photo shoot of all the staff sometime next week, but we’ll let you know the day before. Are you all right, lass? You look a little peaked.”
“Yeah, sure. Never better.” What a good liar she was.
“I’ll let you get back to work, then.”
Angelique watched Birdie walk away, so shaken her teeth started chattering. Le bon Dieu! A week of photographers and cameras watching her every move.
Angelique Durand, welcome to hell.
****
“So, when are you coming to dinner?”
Tim sighed. His best friend’s wife wanted to domesticate him. “When do you want me?”
Beth laughed. “Any night works.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you bring a date and let me know when you want to come?”
“A date.” God, he hated this. Beth had written the extra-credit work he had to do to be eligible to play football, like a million years ago. He owed her big time, so he couldn’t say no to anything she asked.
