by Kara Lennox
He poured coffee and juice, and set out the yogurt and Loretta’s delectable baked goods. Then, with a flourish, he placed the frittata in the center of the table. It was a thing of beauty.
The bird-watchers, both disturbingly birdlike in appearance, stared at the casserole with twin looks of horror.
“Is that…eggs?” Mrs. Bird-watcher asked.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a frittata.”
She clamped her eyes shut. “Take it away, please.”
“We don’t do eggs,” Mr. Bird-watcher added apologetically. “It would be like eating our little feathered friends, you see. Didn’t we tell you?”
Luc guessed that meant the fried-chicken boxed lunches wouldn’t go over big, either.
“MAMA, WHY DIDN’T LUC want to help us?” Zara asked as Loretta drove along the two-lane highway toward New Iberia, where she had half a dozen stops to make.
Loretta had been wondering that herself. He’d been very evasive about why he couldn’t ask his cousin Melanie to help out with the music festival. She had to believe it wasn’t because he didn’t want to help.
“Probably because he didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep. For whatever reason, he doesn’t believe he can get his cousin to help us.” She tried to cast a positive light on Luc’s actions. Luc was one of the few people in this world Zara responded to besides her immediate family. She was unbelievably intelligent. Loretta sometimes had a hard time keeping up with her. Yet she was often shy with strangers and sometimes wouldn’t talk at all for hours at a time. She’d get an expression on her face as if she were pondering some great, eternal problem, trying to work out the meaning of life.
“So what are you going to do?” Zara asked, her forehead furrowed.
“I’ll figure something out. Don’t you worry. This is a grown-up problem, not a kid problem. At the very worst, I’ll hire one of the caterers I already talked to, and the dinner won’t raise as much money for the opera house as we’d hoped.” Or, more accurately, the dinner would lose money, and Loretta would feel obligated to fund the shortage with the money she’d been planning to use to expand her business. But that was what she got for pushing this idea in the first place before doing her research. She should have known better.
“Luc is handsome, isn’t he?” Zara asked.
“That he is.” Handsome, and exotically different from all the dark-haired, dark-eyed Cajuns who lived in Indigo. He had golden-blond hair and twinkling blue eyes and a smile that drove her absolutely wild. He talked differently from anyone she’d ever known, with no hint of a southern or Cajun accent. He’d obviously been raised somewhere else—out west, if Loretta’s ear was any good. But he’d lived all over the world, if his casual references to France and Thailand were any indication.
Why he’d chosen to settle in Indigo, Louisiana, was a mystery and the topic of endless speculation. For all his easy charm, Luc didn’t reveal much about his past except in very vague terms. The fact that he was Celeste Robichaux’s grandson ensured that he was accepted in the town. But that was about all anyone knew for sure.
Didn’t it just figure that after almost eight years without a man in her life, Loretta would get the hots for some exotic out-of-towner with a mysterious past? Just like Jim. He’d been an itinerant farmer, handsome as the devil and brimming with funny stories of his exploits. To Loretta he’d been a romantic vagabond, a gypsy, and she’d embraced the notion of wandering the country, living off the land. At eighteen, she’d found Indigo a dead bore, and what better way to escape than to marry a wandering adventurer?
Living on the road with Jim had been an eye-opener for her, especially when she’d discovered how her husband supplemented his income. He stole things—food, equipment, jewelry, even a car every so often. No appeal from Loretta could convince Jim to stop committing crimes.
Then Zara had come along, and the vagabond lifestyle had lost the little appeal it still held. Loretta had wanted and needed a home.
Roots weren’t for Jim. He’d been unable to hold a steady job, unable to stay at home for longer than a week at a time. Next thing Loretta knew, he’d been arrested somewhere in Texas for armed robbery. Shortly after his conviction, he’d become a crime victim himself, stabbed to death in a prison exercise yard.
Loretta had mourned him—or rather, the man she thought she’d married, the funny charmer who was never down, who was always dreaming up their next adventure. But she’d learned some valuable lessons. She no longer had a desire to see the world or be a gypsy. She’d come to appreciate the community she had here in Indigo, especially her wonderful parents, who’d never stopped loving and supporting her even when she’d made such bad decisions.
She also refused to throw in her lot with a man again, any man. Who knew what might lurk beneath the surface of even the most appealing guy? Even Luc Carter.
Especially Luc Carter.
He flirted relentlessly with her, but she suspected he flirted with every female. She didn’t take it seriously, but just in case, she took care to make it clear she wasn’t interested.
CHAPTER TWO
“LUC. TO WHAT DO I OWE this dubious pleasure?” Luc’s grandmother, Celeste Robichaux, was a grande dame in every respect. She had agreed to “receive him” in the parlor of her huge Garden District home in New Orleans as if she still lived in a different era. She’d even had her maid bring them tea and French pastries.
Celeste herself was exquisitely outfitted in a linen dress, complete with stockings, pumps and a full complement of jewelry. He’d never seen her anything but fashionably dressed and perfectly pressed, whether she was attending a party or staying home to tat doilies, or whatever it was she did with her leisure time.
He’d heard horror stories about Celeste from his father. Supposedly Celeste banished him from home and cheated him out of his cut of the family fortune.
Luc had since learned there was another side to the story, and Celeste, while stern and a little bit scary, wasn’t the devil incarnate. In fact, out of all his extended family, Celeste was the one who’d offered him a way to make restitution for the damage he’d done by sending him off to Indigo to renovate the summer house and start the B and B, keeping him out of jail by doing so.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice, Grand-mère,” he said, adopting the French moniker his cousins used. “I have a problem and I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me out.”
“Is something wrong at La Petite Maison?” she asked, her nose twitching at the possibility that her now-valuable asset might be in trouble.
“No, the B and B is great. I’m making progress on the suite.” He was converting one of the outbuildings to a separate suite for guests who wanted more privacy.
“Then what is it?” she asked impatiently.
As succinctly as he could, he outlined Loretta’s desperate need for an experienced chef to organize the VIP dinner. Celeste listened, her mouth pursed as if she’d bitten into a bad peach.
“I fail to see how this concerns me. Why aren’t you talking to Melanie?”
“I had hoped you might intercede on my behalf.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not your errand girl. If you want Melanie to help this Loretta person, ask her yourself.”
He’d been afraid this might be Celeste’s reaction. And really, there was no reason for her to care whether the music festival was a success or a flop. She didn’t know Loretta. She probably didn’t know most of the people involved in the festival—they were too young.
“Melanie has no reason to do me any favors.”
“Oh, take off that hair shirt. I can’t claim you’re the most popular family member at the moment, but it’s been over a year now. Everyone has mellowed. Mon Dieu, just ask her. Make it sound like overseeing this whatever-it-is dinner will be a feather in her cap. She’ll love the chance to do something unusual.”
Luc figured his doubt must have shown on his face, because his grandmother scowled at him.
“Your father certainly wasn’t afraid to ta
ke risks,” she chided. “That’s one of the few good things I have to say about him. Surely he didn’t raise a coward.”
Now she was making him angry, as she no doubt intended. “Let’s not bring my father into this. Anyway, he didn’t raise me. He left when I was a kid and only came back a few years ago.”
He stood, indicating the meeting was over. It wasn’t Celeste’s refusal to help him that made him angry, but the reasoning behind it. As usual, she was trying to manipulate him. Nothing gave her greater joy than playing her children and grandchildren like pawns on a chessboard in the belief that her actions were for the greater good.
But he knew better than to let his temper show. Celeste was his benefactor. If not for her, he would have no job and no place to live, and he had no idea exactly how much power she wielded with his probation officer.
He didn’t want to find out.
“I’ll go call on Melanie, then,” he said. “Thanks for the tea.”
“You didn’t drink the tea,” she said with a slight smile. As if she’d known he wouldn’t.
CELESTE WATCHED Luc go, her smile fading. She knew her grandson thought she was a mean old lady. But she had her reasons for not interceding on his behalf.
She had to accept at least some of the blame for the events eighteen months ago that had very nearly destroyed her daughter’s hotel. Luc Carter was his father’s son, and his father—well, she hadn’t done right by him.
For years, she’d been expecting Pierre to reenter their lives like the bad penny he’d turned into. She’d never expected it would be his son who came instead.
What Luc had done was reprehensible. But she’d seen something in him, some indication that he was not yet lost. She’d believed him when he’d claimed to have grown fond of the family he’d never known as a child. She’d believed him when he said he was deeply sorry for having tried to ruin the hotel’s reputation so his disreputable partners could buy it cheap.
But she’d been worried there was too much of Luc’s father in him. Thrusting the B and B on him had been her way of testing him in a situation where he couldn’t do too much harm. She figured that if the hard physical labor required to renovate the place was too much, he would take off to some part of the world where U.S. authorities couldn’t touch him, and that would be that.
But he’d stayed in Indigo, somewhat to her surprise, and had thrown himself into his task with great abandon, if her spy could be believed. He’d transformed a basically worthless piece of property into a showpiece and a moneymaker.
Now, she was fully committed to the idea of saving Luc Carter. It was a means of making amends for the way she’d treated Luc’s father. But she needed to get the rest of the family in her corner. They wouldn’t take her word for it, oh, no. Her daughter, Anne, was no pushover, and Anne had raised four intelligent, opinionated girls who, while all in favor of forgiving Luc and welcoming him into the family, were nowhere near convinced he could be trusted.
He was going to have to prove himself personally to them—and now, at least, he had a way to do that with Melanie. Unless Celeste missed her guess—and she seldom did—the motivation was a woman named Loretta Castille.
LUC HAD NOT RETURNED to the Hotel Marchand since that horrible night when he’d been shot and left for dead by Richard Corbin, who’d been trying to acquire the hotel with Luc’s help. He felt a strange mix of emotions as he gazed on the luxurious French Quarter hotel where, for the first time, he’d felt he belonged. As concierge, he’d been embraced by the Marchand sisters and their mother—his cousins and aunt—even when they had no idea he was a blood relative. They had treated all of their staff honorably, and almost from the beginning, Luc had begun to regret the path he’d taken to avenge his father.
He should have listened to his gut.
But that was behind him now. He was moving forward.
He entered the hotel lobby, and the first person he saw was Charlotte, his eldest cousin, behind the front desk. His mouth went dry, but he pressed ahead. He’d e-mailed her since he’d been in Indigo, but he hadn’t seen her in almost two years.
Charlotte had spotted him, too, and there was no welcoming expression on her face as he approached her with his best, most charming smile.
“Hello, Charlotte. Looks like the hotel is doing a brisk business today.” The lobby was filled with small groups of well-heeled patrons, sipping their complimentary coffee. He could see through the windows that the courtyard outside Chez Remy, the hotel restaurant, was already filling with an early lunch crowd.
“No thanks to you,” Charlotte said, but there was a hint of devilment in her eyes. He figured she must have softened since falling in love and marrying last year. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Is Melanie available? Indigo is putting on a Cajun music festival in a few weeks, and a lot of fine restaurants from the area are participating. I have a special role I’d like Melanie to play, if she’s willing.” He’d stayed up half the night getting the wording of his request just right, so that it sounded like a terrific opportunity rather than a desperate request for charity. It was, in fact, a little of both.
“The festival’s had a lot of publicity,” Charlotte said. “It’s been written up everywhere. End of next month, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Isn’t it a little late to be lining up participants?”
“Yes, but the woman who’s coordinating the food has run into a snafu. She asked if I would help.”
Luc could see the wheels turning in Charlotte’s head. A keen businesswoman, she wasn’t one to let an opportunity for good public relations slip away.
“If Melanie does agree to help—and that’s up to her, of course—could the Hotel Marchand be listed as a sponsor?”
“I know we could arrange something. I can’t make promises because I’m not in charge, but I’ll bet Marjo—she’s the organizer—would be willing to work with you.”
“I’ll see if Melanie has a few minutes.”
Melanie offered ten minutes, and Luc didn’t waste a second of it. Crowded into her office with Charlotte, Melanie and Melanie’s husband, Robert LeSoeur, the head chef, he outlined how the VIP dinner had been promoted.
“I take it there are no cooking facilities on the premises?” Melanie asked. She hadn’t smiled once.
“No. You would have to prepare everything elsewhere and transport it. Loretta has a kitchen and a first-class wood-burning oven you can use, and my kitchen is at your disposal, though it’s very small.”
Robert, who’d sat mute, arms folded, finally spoke up. “You’ve got your nerve, coming here and asking for favors.”
Startled, Melanie placed a calming hand on Robert’s arm.
“It’s the nerviest thing I’ve ever done,” Luc agreed. “None of you owes me the time of day, and I would never have come here if Loretta wasn’t in such a spot.”
“Who is this Loretta?” Charlotte asked.
He could have expounded for days on who Loretta was—a feisty single mom, as passionate about baking bread as some people were about a lover. A devoted daughter, helping her parents market their honey products. A good friend, one of many who’d accepted him as an equal in Indigo. Gorgeous, bursting with energy and enthusiasm and ideas, never slowing down.
But his ten minutes were almost up.
“She owns a bakery. She’s fantastic. You’ll really like her.”
“Luc says he might be able to swing a sponsorship for the hotel,” Charlotte added.
“You’re in favor of this?” Melanie asked her older sister.
“I’m in favor of anything that promotes the hotel. And…well, Luc is family.”
“Yeah, the black sheep,” Robert grumbled.
“Don’t do it for me,” Luc said. “Do it for a little town that’s trying to survive. Do it to preserve your Cajun heritage. Remember, the more tourism in Indigo, the more people who stay at La Petite Maison, which is your family’s legacy.”
He’d played his last
card. Now it was up to this impromptu tribunal to decide his fate.
LORETTA HEARD the school bus coming up the road and hurried to wrap up three loaves of cranberry bread and slap on “Indigo Bakery” stickers. When school started, she got the brilliant idea to offer free bread samples to the kids and the driver, Della Roy. Soon she’d had orders pouring in from the kids’ parents—many from neighboring towns who might not otherwise have thought to try her baked goods. Today’s was just a small order, but every little bit helped.
She ran outside just as the bus pulled to a stop and Zara hopped off, though not with the usual spring in her step. Loretta handed the small bag of breads to Della. “Kane, Schubert and Cauberraux. And the shortbread cookies are for you.” Della was a cookie fanatic, so Loretta baked her a few in return for delivering bread orders along with the kids. She seemed to enjoy the break in her routine.
“Thanks.” Della beamed. “If you get any more business, I’m gonna be big as a house. See you tomorrow.” She pulled away, leaving Zara standing forlornly by the side of the road.
It was then that Loretta noticed the bruise on Zara’s cheek, and the fact her little yellow T-shirt had a torn sleeve.
“Zara, what on earth happened to you?” Loretta smoothed back her daughter’s red hair, inspecting the bruise and checking for other injuries. “Are you okay?”
“Long story.”
“Well, I’d like to hear it, please.”
Zara headed toward the bakery, which had been built onto the front of Loretta’s small frame house. The space was just large enough to accommodate a glass-front case along one wall, a commercial fridge, a marble-topped work space, and the brick oven, which dominated. There was also a sturdy oak table and four ladder-back chairs, for those times when a customer wanted to sit down with their bakery treat and consume it on the spot. An old-fashioned cash register handled the money.
Right now, though, the shop was deserted. Zara dropped her backpack on the floor with a clunk and plopped into one of the chairs.
