“We do, thanks. But mind if I ask, Adeline Fontaine—the Ady who owns this café—is she no longer with us?”
Zoe’s deadpan expression morphed into a somber look for a brief second. “She passed a year back. Right outta nowhere. Some sorta aneurysm or something.”
“Oh.”
Rosalie wasn’t sure why that information left her speechless. She hadn’t known Ady personally. Her childhood visits to the café had been few and far between. The extent of her interactions with the woman were quick and simple. Things like Ady calling her an adorable doll or complimenting her on how well-behaved she was. She knew little else about the woman other than she was considered the best chef in town, ran her own restaurant, and had a son.
Across the table, Remi had taken to snapping and unsnapping her pink crossbody purse. The purse was a gift from Grandmommy Erma, Clyde’s mother. Because it was pink and sparkly, two of Remi’s favorite things, she insisted on carrying it everywhere.
“When do I see Grandmommy Lacie?”
Rosalie watched Remi fiddle with the strap of the purse. “Soon, baby. We’re going to eat first. Then Grandmommy Lacie’s.”
“Is she nice like Grandmommy Erma?”
“She will be to you.”
“I miss Grandmommy Erma.”
“How about we call her tonight?”
“Okay.”
When Zoe returned to take their orders, Rosalie carefully selected the most affordable items. She ordered the day’s special for herself—a cup of gumbo—and a grilled cheese sandwich and chocolate milk for Remi. Before Zoe could walk off again, she asked the next question that had been on her mind since pulling up in front of Ady’s.
“I saw the hiring sign in the window. Can I have an application?”
For the first time, Zoe cracked a smile. It wasn’t warm or friendly, but it was a start. “We don’t got any applications. You’ve gotta talk to Nick. He’s running things now.”
“When can I speak with him?”
“Gotta catch him when you can. Now might be your best bet. Pretty sure he’s holed up in the back office.”
“We’ll eat first. Thanks.”
Remi waited for the waitress to disappear as if she understood what was going on. No longer interested in her purse, she wrinkled her nose from across the table. “Mommy, are you gonna work here?”
“Maybe. If they’ll hire me.”
“If they do, Mommy, you can get rid of the fishy smell.”
Rosalie couldn’t suppress her smile. “How’d you know that’s the first thing I’d do?”
The rest of lunch was uneventful. By its end, Rosalie eyeballed the $14.21 ticket and hesitantly handed over her debit card. Zoe directed her to head to the back and knock on the door next to the utility closet if she wanted to talk to Nick. Rosalie followed directions, bringing Remi along for the job inquiry.
She vaguely remembered Nicholas Fontaine. The image in her head was one of a boy a year or two older than she was. If she remembered correctly, he inherited Ady’s pale green eyes and loosely waved hair. The similarities ended there; the rest of him was his father, bronze in skin tone with features square and masculine. She knew nothing else about him other than the Fontaines divorced when she was a teenager, and his father soon left town.
She held her fist up and knocked twice. Beyond the door, the office was silent. Was Zoe mistaken claiming he was inside?
Rosalie knocked again, expecting more silence in answer.
Instead, a male’s drowsy croak answered her. “Come in.”
Chapter Two
Nick Fontaine assumed the rapping at his door was his imagination. Vivid dreams were no stranger to him. He had once dreamt about a giant talking crawfish. As real as it’d seemed at the time, it turned out to be fake.
He stayed where he was, seated at the desk in the room, surrounded by stacks of papers. None of them fazed him, though. How could they? His eyes were closed. Not that he didn’t ignore them when they were open too. Over the last year since Ady’s had become his, he had gotten pretty damn good at it.
The knocking persisted. Whoever it was wasn’t going away. He suppressed the urge to keep napping. Sitting up, a single white sheet of paper stuck to his cheek, he mumbled for the mystery person to enter. He wiped his mouth free of any possible drool, using his rolled-up shirtsleeve, and he tried his best to at least appear busy. If he sat up as straight as an arrow and shuffled a thick sheaf of paper, he’d seem swamped. He did just that as the knob turned and the door opened.
He expected his ever-snappy waitress Zoe or his bumbling cook, Jefferson. Possibly Que, the mediocre busboy. Nobody else came to visit him except…
Nick’s blood pressure spiked thinking about the others. Everybody else. The folks in town who felt it was their place to stop him, any time, any place, and offer their pitying condolences for losing Mom. He always thanked them in quick, rehearsed gratitude. Then he changed the subject using his natural Fontaine charm. That was his best asset.
But, as the door opened and Nick fixed a dimpled grin onto his face, the person who entered was a surprise—or should he say people? It was a woman clutching the hand of a small girl who must’ve been around his daughter Maxie’s age. The mother and daughter looked like twins in a way, a reflection of past and present. Skin a deep sienna brown and hair tight and thick in texture, they stared at him with matching catlike eyes. The woman’s mouth opened to speak, lips distracting in their heart shape and prominent Cupid’s bow.
He was listening.
“Afternoon, Mr. Fontaine, are you busy right now?”
“Uh, no. Not at all. Come in.” He shuffled more papers for dramatic effect. He watched as the two crossed the room and stopped in front of his desk. The more he stared at the woman, surveying the beauty mark on her left cheekbone and the delicate curve of her jawline, the more familiar she looked. He’d seen this woman before. Somewhere. He cleared his throat and let his dimples and grin do the talking. “What can I do for you? Is this about the food? Jefferson’s in the kitchen. He has his off days. Mistakes basil for parsley all the time.”
“The cooking was, um, fine.”
“I had a grilled cheese sandwich,” the little girl piped up. Her hair was styled in four ponytails thicker than rope, one beside each ear and another two in the back. She wore a cotton swing dress girlier than Maxie would ever tolerate, tiny bows patterned across the fabric. And she was clean. Cleaner than Maxie an hour into the day.
“Grilled cheese sammich, eh? Safe choice. Smart girl.”
The girl skipped the compliment, scrunching her nose. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Say what like what?”
“Sammich.”
“Remi,” the woman sighed. “Remember when we agreed not to interrupt grown-ups?”
“It’s alright. I’ve got a daughter her age. I think. How old are you, Remi?”
“Five.”
“Maxie’s five.”
“Is Maxie here to play?”
“Anyway, Mr. Fontaine,” the woman cut in. “Sorry to bother, but my name’s Rosalie Underwood. I’m new to town and saw the hiring sign in the window. What position are you filling?”