“You always have customers going in and out of your place. I’m surprised you do it all on your own. What do you do when you want to take a day off?”
“I close the shop on Mondays. That gives me time to go into New Orleans if I need supplies I can’t have delivered or if I want to get my hair or nails done.” She looked down at her nails. “Not that I’ve done either of those things lately.”
“Where did you learn to cook?” Maurice asked as he drove slowly down Main Street.
“From my mother, at first.” Amelie frowned because the memories flooded back. “Then in Paris.”
“And you’re frowning again,” Maurice said softly. “Is that where you lost him?”
Amelie nodded. Thankfully, Maurice pulled up to her bakery, ending the conversation. She gave Maurice a weak smile. “Thank you for giving me a ride home. I’ll call the wrecker service in the morning to have them pick up my car.” She pushed open her door and dropped to the ground.
As she reached the front of the truck, Maurice appeared in front of her.
“You don’t have to walk me to the door,” she said.
He held up his hand. “I know. You’re a strong, independent woman, capable of walking to your apartment on your own. However, my mother taught me that a man isn’t a gentleman if he doesn’t walk a woman to her door. That, and it’s in my nature and the job description to ensure the safety of the people around me.” He held out his arm. “That would be you.” When she didn’t take his arm, he added. “Please. Just humor me. If not for yourself, then for my mother.”
Her lips twitched as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “For your mother.”
“Thank you.” He tipped his head toward the sky. “Did you hear that, Mom? Your lessons didn’t fall on deaf ears.”
Amelie stopped in front of the bakery, her brow dipping. “When did you lose your mother?”
He stared at the door, his face reflecting his sadness in the glass. “I was on a mission in Afghanistan when I got word she was sick with the flu. By the time I got to where I could call to check on her, she’d passed.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “You didn’t get to say goodbye.”
He shook his head. “No, and they’d already had the funeral, not knowing when I’d be out of the field.”
“It’s hard to get closure.”
“Yeah. It didn’t seem real to me. I didn’t see her get sick and watch her body shut down. I didn’t see her at the funeral. I was in denial for the longest, thinking she’d show up and tease me that I could be fooled so easily.”
“But she didn’t.” Amelie sighed.
“No. She didn’t.” He looked down at her hand on his arm. “At least with my father, I was there with him when he passed ten months later.” His lips pressed into a tight line. “The doctors said his heart gave out. They called it broken heart syndrome.” He lifted his head. “Wow. I shouldn’t have weighed you down with more depressing thoughts. You were already down, thinking about someone you’d loved and lost.” He covered her hand with his. “You need to get inside, switch on a sitcom and cleanse your mind of death and dying.” He looked at the door. “You live above the bakery, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes. The stairs to my apartment are around the back.”
Maurice frowned as he walked her around the side of the building. “You need more light and security cameras.”
Amelie was thinking the same thing. “There’s usually more light than this, and it has a motion-sensor device.” She glanced up at the fixture on the corner that wasn’t doing its job. “Is it my imagination, or is that light broken?”
Maurice tipped his head and studied the corner light. “It’s broken.” Quietly, he removed her hand from his arm, shifted to place his body in front of hers and leaned his head around the corner. “Did you leave the back door to your shop open?”
“No,” she said and started around him, her heart in her throat.
Maurice raised his arm, blocking her path. “Stay here,” he whispered. “If someone broke in, he might still be there.”
“Then we should call the sheriff,” she said.
“You do that…from here,” he said. “I’m going in to check it out.” He took a step away.
“Or,” Amelie grabbed his hand, “you can stay here with me and wait for the police to come.”
“If he’s in there, I don’t want him to get away.”
“And I don’t want you to get hurt,” she squeezed his hand harder. “What if he’s armed?”
