Her cheeks flooded with heat before she turned away to attack another portion of the flour-covered floor. “Luis had lost his mother, had been taken to another continent, to a country he hadn’t grown up in and had to live with a father he didn’t know. Fortunately, his mother had made sure he spoke French since he had dual citizenship in the US and in France, or it could’ve been worse.”
“Had Armand and his wife divorced?” Maurice asked.
“Apparently not,” Amelie said. “He told me that he and Julia met at a nightclub in Paris when they were both young. He was a young sous chef in Paris. She was there on a student visa, studying art.”
Maurice grunted. “Great place to study art with museums like the Louvre, Orsay and the Monet exhibits.”
Amelie nodded. “Julia loved art. Armand loved food. Together, they shared their love of Paris. In the process, they fell in love. They’d only known each other for a couple of months when they married. They could barely afford an apartment on what he was making as a sous chef. But they had love.” Amelie had finished with the dust mop out front and stood it in a corner. “Are you finished with wiping down the counters and display cases?”
He nodded. “You should inspect. I’m sure your standards are much higher than mine.” He rinsed the shop rag in the soapy water and handed it to her. “You’ll need this.”
She took the cloth and walked through the shop front from the entry door to the display cabinets, armed and ready to pounce on even the slightest smudge or errant flake of flour that Maurice had missed.
After a few minutes, she stood back, shaking her head. “Well done, my friend. Well done.” She grinned. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Maurice’s lips spread in a grin. “All the latrines I cleaned with a toothbrush in basic combat training paid off.”
“Eww.” Amelie grimaced. “Not a good analogy.” She drew in a breath and nodded toward the kitchen. “Do you need a break, or are you ready to tackle the kitchen? And no. I’m not issuing you a toothbrush for this effort. The health department inspectors would not be amused.”
“I’m ready.”
“Then while you start in there, I’ll mop this room and then join you.”
Maurice helped her fill the mop bucket with a lemon-scented floor cleaner and water. While she mopped, he started on the refrigerators.
Amelie joined him a half an hour later, satisfied that the front of the shop was ready for freshly baked goods and customers.
“Okay,” Maurice said, “you can’t leave me hanging. I want to hear more about your friend Armand.”
Amelie found a clean rag, refilled the sink with warm soapy water, dunked her rag and squeezed out the excess.
“Where was I?” she asked as she worked on the shelves that had held the ingredients.
“Armand and his wife were broke, living on love.”
She nodded. “He said they were fine until she got pregnant. He’d just signed on as chef for a struggling restaurant that had just been sold to an investor with big ideas. Armand was working a lot of overtime and was away from Julia for much of her pregnancy. The night she went into labor, he barely made it home in time to take her to the hospital to deliver baby Luis.”
“Did she have any difficulties in the delivery?”
Amelie shook her head. “No, but Julia had a hard time recovering. She didn’t want to get out of bed. Armand took off so much time helping her that he nearly lost his job. She was homesick for her family and the support system she’d left behind.”
“Postpartum depression?” Maurice suggested.
Amelie nodded. “Sounds like it.”
“When she finally was able to take care of herself and Luis, Armand threw everything he had into his work, trying to build a name for himself and for the restaurant to justify the owner’s investment and make more money to support his family.”
Amelie tossed her rag in the sink full of soapy water, grabbed the mop and squeezed out the excess water. As she mopped the corner of the kitchen they’d finished, she continued her story. “He came home one night with the news that a highly regarded food critic had visited the restaurant and had complimented the chef on the food presented. His review would be good in the newspaper the following day. He was so excited about sharing the information with his wife. But when he opened the door, Julia, Luis and all their things were gone, except the empty crib, the highchair and a stroller.”
“She went back to California?” Maurice stopped cleaning the stove and straightened.
Amelie’s heart pinched hard in her chest. Armand had been so stoic when he’d shared that part of his story with her. He’d completely blamed himself for not seeing her misery. “She left a note that said she was going home to California, because she couldn’t raise Luis without help. He could divorce her if he wanted, but she still loved him and wanted him to follow his dream of becoming the best chef in Paris.”
“Wow.” Maurice shook his head. “He didn’t go after her?”
“No.” Amelie sighed. “He had a job in Paris, not in California. Julia and Luis lived with her parents. Armand sent money so that she didn’t have to work.”
“But he didn’t follow her.” Maurice shook his head.
