“Such a shame. I had met with Monsieur Benoît on occasion. You see, our families were connected. I traced our lineage back and found that his arrière grand-mère, how do you say...great grandmother, and mine were close friends. I came across letters in an old trunk in the attic of the family estate in Paris. They were letters my arrière grand-mère received from him. Our great-grandmothers grew up together and attended the Grande Saison as young debutantes.”
“Armand did mention his great-grandmother was active in high society during the eighteen hundreds.” Amelie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “What did he say her name was?” She tapped her chin. “Was it Anne? No. Anne-Sophie?”
“Yes, yes. Anne-Sophie.” Peltier nodded. “They kept in touch, sent gifts at birthdays and Christmas and shared their love of art and music for many years.” He sighed with a smile pulling at his lips. “Armand never knew. He did not have the fortune of finding the letters our arrière grand-mères exchanged. He did not seem at all interested.”
“Armand’s life centered around food,” Amelie said. He had never mentioned Peltier. She studied the man’s features. “I’m good at remembering faces, if not names. I don’t recall seeing you with Armand during the four years I worked closely with him.”
“Ah, but then the Chez Benoît was very popular. So many people came to Paris just to eat there. How close were you to Armand?”
Amelie shrugged. “As close as a sous chef can be in a kitchen. He was my boss.”
Maurice knew Amelie’s bond with Armand was much more than an employer-employee relationship. Apparently, she didn’t think Peltier needed to know that.
Amelie straightened and lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse me, Monsieur Peltier, it’s my day off, and I have a lot to catch up on.” She reached for the bags of groceries.
Maurice stepped in front of her. “I’ll get them.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll get them myself.” Her eyes met and held his gaze briefly.
Maurice nodded and backed off. The woman wanted to carry her own bags. He suspected it would keep her hands occupied so the Frenchman couldn’t repeat the kiss on her knuckles.
“I love a strong, independent woman. And you’re that in spades.” He winked, laid a hand to the small of her back and waved as he passed Peltier. “Enjoy your tour of the town.”
“Good to see you, LaShawnda,” Amelie said as she sailed past.
“Good to see you, too,” LaShawnda said with a smile. “I’ll be by on Friday for my mother’s birthday cake.”
“It’ll be ready. She’s going to love the strawberry filling.”
“I know she will,” LaShawnda said. “She loves everything that comes out of Baked with Love.”
Maurice held the door as Amelie stepped through with her bags.
She marched toward the bakery van, shoved the bags behind her seat and slid behind the wheel.
Maurice climbed into the passenger side, his gaze on her face. “Everything all right?”
Amelie’s eyebrows dropped low. “I don’t know.” She shifted into drive, pulled away from the store and drove down Main Street.
Maurice dug around in the glove box in front of him and found a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer. “Hold out your hand.”
She held out one hand while retaining her grip on the steering wheel with the other. “What is that?”
“Hand sanitizer.” He squirted some into her open palm. “If you slow down, I’ll hold the wheel.”
Amelie gently pressed the brake, slowing the van to under ten miles per hour.
Maurice took the wheel while Amelie rubbed the hand sanitizer between her two hands and over her knuckles.
“Did the French guy give you bad vibes?” Maurice asked, his gaze on the street ahead.
“Yes. And he was lying.”
When she took the wheel again, Maurice leaned back in his seat, capped the bottle and stowed it in the glove box. “How so?”
She frowned. “At least, I think he was. I have no idea what Armand’s great-grandmother’s name was. I made it up. I said the first French female name that came to my mind. Anne-Sophie.”
Maurice grinned. “Is that the name of someone you know?”
