“I’ve been up since three-thirty,” Amelie said, digging in her heels. “If I leave now, I might get five hours of sleep before I have to get up at three-thirty again.”
“Just one more dance,” Felina begged with a hint of a whine.
At the pleading look from the green eyes of Bayou Mambaloa’s favorite florist, Amelie gave in. However, she stopped at the edge of the dance floor to give herself clearance to make her escape after the current song finished.
“This is the first time in months we’ve had most of us at a girl’s night out.” Felina moved her feet in time to the music and the others performing the line dance. “We have to make the most of it before more of us drop babies.”
Amelie’s eyebrows rose. “Are you trying to tell me you’re pregnant?”
“Felina’s pregnant?” Holly Gautier paused on her way to deliver a tray of drinks to a table full of rowdy men. She spoke loudly enough that the other girls in their group heard and gathered around Felina.
Camille, their local candymaker, grabbed Felina’s arm. “You’re pregnant?”
“No. No.” Felina’s cheeks pinkened.
“Felina’s pregnant?” Shelby Taylor engulfed Felina in a big hug. “That’s awesome. Your baby can join Bernie’s Gabby and my sweet Jean-Luc at our play dates.”
Gisele, the granddaughter of Bayou Mambaloa’s Voodoo queen, demanded, “Why wasn’t I told?”
“Because I’m not.” Felina extricated herself from Shelby’s hug and grimaced. “Yet.” She looked at her friends. “Lucas and I are trying. We’ve met with a fertility specialist.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Bernie took Felina’s hand. “It will happen.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Felina’s eyes glazed.
“There are lots of children who need loving parents,” Ouida Mae said. “Like my Sophie and Harley Quinn.” She’d adopted Sophie as a pregnant fourteen-year-old and then adopted the baby she’d given birth to months later.
“And my Billy Ray is a great big brother to Ava.” Camille smiled. “She thinks he hung the moon.”
Felina sighed. “We haven’t ruled out adoption. But we wanted to try to have one of our own first. In truth, the trying is the most fun.” She grinned and waved toward the dance floor. “Come on, ladies. We should be dancing.”
As their friends surrounded Felina in solidarity, Amelie stayed at the edge of the dance floor, feeling more disconnected than ever. Most of her friends had husbands or lovers now, leaving her the odd girl out. The third wheel. Their single friend. If they weren’t all so busy with their own perfect lives, they’d probably try to set her up on blind dates.
Amelie shook her head. She’d been in Bayou Mambaloa for a few years now. She’d made friends and then watched as they’d fallen in love with the men of the Bayou Brotherhood Protectors. Because she was the town baker, Amelie’s hours made dating difficult. Plus, she wasn’t sure she was ready to date.
She’d come to Bayou Mambaloa to escape. To make a new life for herself. A different life than she’d imagined as a young twenty-one-year-old who’d moved to Paris to train and build a career as a chef.
As she moved through the line dance, she remembered.
Her first day in Paris. Alone. Following a dream to become a chef. She’d spent nine months at Le Cordon Bleu Culinary School, then interning at Maison Belle Époque for a year. When she’d received a personal invitation to intern at Chez Benoît, Amelie had been beside herself. Only the best culinary students in Paris received invitations to study under the world-renowned Chef Armand Benoît. He’d come from a long line of highly respected French chefs, continuing a legacy of unequaled perfection in the culinary world.
Armand had been tough but fair. If he didn’t see passion in his students, he didn’t waste his time on them.
After a few weeks, he’d taken Amelie under his wing, treating her more like one of his children than his own son. He’d taught her the magic of culinary art—the beauty of exquisite cuisine.
She’d transitioned from student to sous chef. The bond between Amelie and Armand had grown over the years. He hadn’t been just the head chef and instructor, he’d been a friend. A father-figure. Someone she’d trusted and who trusted her.
Four years under Armand’s tutelage hadn’t been nearly enough, yet it had been all she would have.
Near the end of her fourth anniversary working with Amand, he’d gifted her with his family’s prized recipe book that had been passed down through the ages. She’d tried to refuse the book, stating it should go to his son, Luis, to keep it in the family.
Armand had insisted she keep it safe, the secrets within for her eyes only. Luis wouldn’t know what to do with it. After multiple attempts with chef oversight, he had yet to make a palatable Soufflé au Fromage. Though he loved his son, he doubted the young man would carry on the Benoît legacy. Armand wanted le grand livre de la cuisine to go to someone who would treasure its importance and keep it safe and secret from everyone, including Luis.
To Amelie, the book had been the ultimate gift, a profound honor. She’d spent that evening and well into the night carefully leafing through the pages, her excitement and wonder making it impossible to sleep. She’d loved the handwritten notes in the margines, knowing the hands that had made them belonged to people Armand had loved.
The next morning, she’d hurried to the restaurant to thank Armand again for the gift, only to find her mentor dead on the floor of his kitchen. Authorities ruled he’d had a heart attack.
“You must really dislike the Cupid Shuffle,” a voice said over the music.
