“You’re lucky.”
“Why would you say that?” he asked.
“Because so many schools have cut their music and art programs while your school has a marching and jazz band.”
“That’s because music is so much an intricate part of this city’s history. I know a number of musicians who fund-raise to support our schools’ music programs.” Gage filled the greased pockets of two muffin tins and spooned the pudding into the pockets, filling each just barely to the top.
“What do you use to make the sauce?” she asked, changing the topic of conversation.
“I use unsalted butter, sugar, orange juice, eggs, and bourbon. You can substitute rum or brandy for the whiskey, or if you want a nonalcoholic sauce, then use vanilla extract, although most vanilla does contain alcohol. By the way, have you eaten?” he asked her.
“Yes. Your brother made breakfast for me earlier this morning.”
“Did you have beignets?”
“No.”
“Breakfast isn’t breakfast unless you have a beignet. Do you know how to make them?”
“Yes!”
Tonya’s smile was dazzling. When she’d first come to New Orleans and had beignets and café au lait for breakfast, she knew she had to learn to make the fried, puffy, golden brown dough dusted with confectioners’ sugar. It took her two tries before they were doughy and with enough air inside so they wouldn’t sink to the bottom of the fryer.
“Maybe one of these days you’ll make them for me.”
Her smile slowly faded. “That probably won’t be for a while.”
He halted placing the tins on baking pans. “What do you mean by a while?”
“I don’t plan to move down here until next year.”
He went completely still. “Next year?”
“Yes. I still have to tie up a few things in New York.” Her explanation appeared to satisfy Gage; he covered the pans with plastic wrap and put them in the refrigerator. “Aren’t you going to bake them now?” she asked.
“No. I’ll put them in the oven after I take you home. The ladies don’t meet until four.”
Tonya removed her apron, dropped it in a canvas bin with soiled linen, and picked up her tote off the stool. She followed Gage out of the restaurant to the parking lot. He opened the passenger-side door to the SUV for her and waited until she was seated before rounding the vehicle to sit behind the wheel.
Gage slipped on a pair of sunglasses, started the engine, and then executed a smooth U-turn, and that is when Tonya noticed his hands for the first time. They were somewhat delicate for a man his size, the fingers long and beautifully formed. “How many instruments do you play?”
“I can play every instrument in the orchestra. I haven’t mastered the harp, so I don’t count that one.”
She smiled. “You must like music.”
“I love it.”
“More than cooking?”
There came a moment of silence before Gage said, “No. Right now they’re even.” He gave her a quick glance. “Did you always want to be a chef?”
“Yes. As a child I spent summers with my grandparents in Daytona Beach, Florida, and my grandmother prayed I’d grow up to become a better cook than my mother. It wasn’t that my mother is a bad cook, but her dishes are very bland because my dad has a sensitive stomach. Grandma said it’s hard to season food after you cook it.”
Gage nodded, smiling. “She’s right. So, your grandmamma taught you to cook?”
Tonya told him about sitting on the porch helping her grandma snap the ends off greens, and peeling white potatoes, which would eventually be added to smoked ham hocks after the skin was removed. “Nowadays folks wanting to eat healthier use smoked turkey instead of ham.”
“What do you plan to serve at your supper club?”
