“Underwood.” He knew that name. In a small town like St. Aster, he knew just about everyone’s. The Underwoods were a family who lived a couple yards off the bayou. Was she related?
In a sweep of sudden memory, he finally placed her face. Rosalie Underwood. Daughter of Lacie Underwood, she had lived in St. Aster for years. What did she mean by new to town?
“You’re nobody new,” he said, chuckling. His fingers found his loose waves, sifting through them out of habit. “You’re Ms. Lacie’s daughter, right? How’s she and Henry doing?”
“I’ve been away long enough to be new again.”
“Is that how it works?”
The delicacy in her jaw wavered, clenching up. “Yeah, it is. About the job, though. What position is it?”
“What d’you have experience with?”
Nick could tell his cavalier responses dug under her skin. She let go of Remi’s hand and her posture went rebar straight. She wasn’t up for his frivolous questions. Anything outside of job talk she deemed a waste. Ms. Lacie was the same way, straight to business, no chaser.
“I’ve waitressed before.”
“Then I’m looking for a waitress.”
Remi glanced between the two of them, brows squished together. “Mommy, you can be the waitress.”
“What a coincidence. I’m guessing the job pays off tips?”
“I pay a flat rate of three bucks an hour. Everything else earned is through tips.”
“How soon do you need this waitress to start?”
“When are you available to start?” Nick reclined in the office chair, arms folded behind his head.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works.”
Rosalie quirked her right brow. “Just like that? I’m hired?”
“Yeah, sure…why not? If you’re interested in the job, I’m interested in hiring you.”
“Err, okay. What time should I be here?”
“Ask Zoe when she starts. She’ll be training you.”
Nick picked up a red inked pen and started clicking it, pretending to focus on the stacks of paperwork. For as many questions as he had about Rosalie Underwood and her sudden reappearance, he wanted his alone time more. If he reverted back to looking busy, she’d get the hint…
“Mommy, can I have a pen like that?” Remi tugged on the hem of Rosalie’s blouse and pointed.
“I’ll give you my extra pen in my purse.”
Nick clicked the red inked pen one last time and then slid it across the desk. “How about you take this one? I’ve got plenty.”
“I’ve never had a red pen before.”
“Now it’s yours.”
“Say thank you, Remi.”
Remi beamed, clicking the pen like him. “Thanks, mister…”
“Nick.”
“Mr. Nick,” Remi said with another click of the pen.
“We better get going. It was nice meeting you. I’ll be here tomorrow at whatever time Zoe comes in. I really appreciate you hiring me.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. No big deal.”
Rosalie stood there a second longer, hands gently placed on either of Remi’s shoulders. If he didn’t know better, it seemed like more words dangled on the cusp of her tongue, a mental back-and-forth going on as she debated to say whatever it was. She decided against it, and cut him a small, appreciative smile.
“See you tomorrow.”
Nick flashed a thumbs-up before shuffling more papers. Remi returned the gesture and then clutched Rosalie’s hand the rest of the walk out of the office. The door thudded to a close and Nick let the papers slide freely from his hands.
The clock on the wall read 4:26 p.m.
Too late in the afternoon to go back to sleep. He scrubbed a hand over his face and resigned himself to a fate of tedious responsibility for the rest of the day. His reward? Coming home to Maxie.
“Papa!”
“Kiddo!”
Nick opened his arms wide to catch a dashing Maxie. Today’s tomboy fashions, chosen with help from the babysitter, Ellie, was a pair of corduroy overalls and a baseball T-shirt. Her hair, loose, wavy, and golden-brown like his, bounced in a knotted mess. He caught her in his arms and slid a tangled strand between his fingertips.
“Kiddo, were you shipwrecked on an island again? What’s up with the hair?”
Maxie giggled, perched in his arms. “Ellie and me played hide-and-seek.”
“And did you hide in the wilderness?”
“No!”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He tickled her between the base of her neck and shoulder. She erupted into more giggles and writhed in his grasp.
“Her hair didn’t start out that way, Mr. Fontaine. Promise.” Ellie was a freshman college student, nervous all of the time, but a kind teenager who Maxie enjoyed. She fidgeted beside Nick on their walk down the hallway. “Originally I put it in two mini buns, but…uh, that didn’t last long.”
“No kidding. But I’m not surprised. This one plays hard.”
“I caught a frog!” Maxie boasted.
Nick turned her free, putting her down onto her feet again. She burst into energy and hurdled up the stairs. He rushed to the bottom step to call after her.
“Careful, kiddo! No running up the stairs.”
“Yes, Papa!”
“She never gets tired. She has energy for days.”
“Tell me about it. How much do I owe you this time?” Nick freed his wallet from his back pocket and split the leather pouch open for his cash.
Twenty minutes later, Maxie thrashed around upstairs playing Godzilla. She cleverly mixed in Barbies with action figures and stuffed animals, terrorizing them all as she stomped through the make-believe city. Nick half listened from the kitchen. Even if he now spent his days holed up in the office, in the evenings he got to cook for Maxie. Cooking eased the taut strain in his muscles. His Adam’s apple ceased its lumpy bob on each swallow. He no longer had to put on a grin and fake charm.
Not when he was cooking.
Mom used to say cooking was its own labor of love. Whether for others or yourself, it didn’t matter.
Nick agreed. He created entire feasts with his bare hands, toiling from scratch. He got to watch the joy unfold on the faces of others as they took their first bite. In turn, he rode the wave of pride until the wheels fell off. That high was the reason Mom opened the café so many years ago.
Culinary artistry was in his blood. The Fontaine family had a reputation for mind-blowing creole cuisine. For generations as far back as the late nineteenth century, his family was known for its cookouts about town. Mom claimed they were some of the first settlers in St. Aster, eager to cultivate a community for people who looked like them. The in-betweens that didn’t quite fit anywhere else.
But his love for cooking changed when Mom passed. Before, he spent his days following in Mom’s footsteps, running the kitchen at Ady’s. It was a role he excelled in, feeding the thousands who visited their restaurant over the years. After she passed away, he couldn’t bring himself to bear the restaurant’s kitchen anymore. He could no longer cook for Ady’s as if things were like they used to be. They never would be again.