At least I’m not still a suspect in the murder.
“Adele!” Across the street, someone calls my name. Sadie Diaz, one of my best friends, waves and heads my way. I was hoping not to see anyone I know, but Taos is too small for that.
Besides, Sadie is in my posse. We’re ride-or-die. And she’s adorable today in a bright red pea coat and white scarf decorated with yellow duckies. Her blue winter hat looks like something one of her kindergarten students might have knitted. Do kindergarteners knit? I’m not sure if six-year-olds should be allowed knitting needles, but I’m no expert.
“Hey, you,” Sadie says. She pads right up to me and gives me a hug, which I accept. She always smells like sugar cookies.
“Hey, girl,” I say. “Out for a walk?”
“Headed to the post office to get some stamps.” She turns and regards my storefront solemnly. “Adele, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.” I square my shoulders. I’ve got my brave face on, but Sadie sees right through it. Sympathy softens her gaze.
“Any word from the police?” She asks.
“No.” I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets and start walking up the street towards the post office. Sadie falls into step beside me. “What are you going to do now?”
“Take some catering jobs,” I say lightly. “Keep myself busy. When the criminal investigation is over, I'll be ready to open again.” I just need ten thousand in back rent. No biggie.
The winter wind picks up, blowing an old copy of The Taos News down the sidewalk past me. I stick my foot out and trap it under my boot. The front page story is all about the tragic tale of Christopher “Bing” Ford, shot dead at age thirty-one. I know the article by heart—I read it before it went to print. The reporter quoted me in paragraph two: “Christopher Ford was a son, brother, business partner and friend. He will be missed.” And again in paragraph four: “As part owner of The Chocolatier, I can confirm that I and the workers had no idea our warehouse was part of an illegal drug smuggling ring. We are fully cooperating with the police.”
Mémère, you were right. My grandma always told me not to trust a man further than I could throw him.
I pick up the old newspaper and crumple it into a ball and stuff it into the trash can.
Sadie watches me with her eyebrows knotted.
“I’ll be fine.” I return to loop my arm in hers.
“Of course you will be fine. It just sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s almost December. I know the gift giving season is big for you.”
“It’s fine,” I wave my hand. “If everything goes well, I’ll be able to re-open soon.” I don’t tell her the chances of things going well are slim to none. I have no money, no access to my shop and the industrial kitchen, and no supplies. The shop was doing well. It was in the black, but Bing embezzled any excess cash we had.
I haven’t told my parents. They’ve been dying to be right about this venture failing.
I grin to keep from grinding my teeth, but I’m not fooling Sadie.
She leans forward to peer at my face. “You sure?”
“If the good Lord wills it and the creek don’t rise.” Even Mémère’s old sayings fail to bring me cheer.
We walk in silence for a while. When we pass the bakery, I wave to the owner, Brooke, who’s out sweeping the stoop. She barely nods before scurrying back inside her shop, as if I’m toxic waste and my failure in business is contagious.
When we reach the post office, Sadie turns to face me. “You know if you need anything, you can ask us. Anything at all.” She swallows. “I know you’d never ask, but I have some money saved—”
Oh God. I hold up a hand to cut her off. “There’s no need for that.”
“Adele—”
“I’m serious, Sadie. It’s bad, but it’s not that bad.” I’d rather roll naked over broken glass than take money from my friends.
“I want to help,” she says. Sadie’s a sweetheart, but surprisingly stubborn. “We all do. Remember when you were short-staffed and got an order for two thousand white chocolate truffles with strawberry cream filling? And it was the night before Valentine’s day?”
“Of course I remember. You, Char and Tabitha stayed up all night to help me. And I couldn’t afford to pay you, so I made blinis for us every third Sunday of the month for a year.” Now I can make blinis in my sleep.
“We got through it,” Sadie says firmly. “You’ve faced challenges before, and you’ve always beat them.”
“Yeah,” I say. The winter wind feels like it’s cutting through my coat. Sadie’s right—I’ve always fought to keep my business alive. But I’m tired of fighting. It feels like I’m pushing a boulder up the hill over and over again. But instead of a boulder, it’s a concrete profiterole.
I tell this to Sadie, and she doesn’t laugh. “It doesn’t have to be like that. We want to help. If not with money then with our time. You can pay us back with baked goods.”
“All right, it’s a deal. If I need help, I’ll let you know.” I squeeze her tight. We make our goodbyes, and I trudge back the way I came. I stop in front of my shop and drink in the sight, then close my eyes and picture the shop the way I want to remember it—with lights on and no crime scene tape and a constant stream of customers flowing through the door. I hear my mémère’s advice in my head.
Create an image in your mind of what you want and hold to it, even when things get hard. You will bring what you want into existence if you keep the faith.
“All right, Mémère,” I say out loud. “I’m keeping the faith. In the meantime, I need a plan.”
I turn away from my shop without looking at it again. This is the last time I’ll visit until I’m ready to reopen The Chocolatier. I have rent to pay and no money to pay it, so it’s time to swallow my pride and start looking for a job to tide me over. I refuse to lose this business and concede my parents were right. I’m a trained chef and entrepreneur. I’d be an asset to any business if I can convince them to hire me in the middle of winter. Taos is a tourist town, and jobs are thin on the ground this time of year.
I do know of one restaurant that’s hiring. Too bad it’s owned by my nemesis, Rafe Lightfoot. The guy who stepped in to protect me when Bing’s enemies came after me thinking I had his drugs or money. He told me that now that the cartel’s killed Bing I’m safe, but he insisted on installing security measures in my home and ordering me to use it.
Which is nice, I guess. But still overbearing. But that’s Rafe: bossy, arrogant, know-it-all. Former military—his closest friends call him “Sarge.” He thinks he can order everyone around. No self-respecting, independent woman would want to work for a guy like that. Driving up to his new restaurant and asking for a job is the last thing I want to do. But it’s either that or ask my friends for help.
I sigh and slip into my truck. As Mémère would say, No one likes the taste of humble pie.
Rafe
I stand on the large wooden deck outside the repurposed mountain ski lodge that now serves as my pack’s headquarters and home. The direct light of the midwinter sun has snow melting in patches. I step carefully from bare patch to patch, avoiding sheets of ice. My feet are bare and so is my chest. I’m dressed in nothing but sweatpants, but I don’t feel the cold.