“The numbers have spoken, boss,” Amanda said with gravitas. She angled her laptop toward Jeanne and grinned. “La Bohème is turning a profit.”

Jeanne studied the table on the screen. After a long moment, her gaze shifted to the notebook with her handwritten records and then to the neat stacks of notes that were laid out on the table in front of them.

Amanda followed her eyes. “Yes, I checked every single record and bill.” She pointed at the Excel spreadsheet she’d produced. “And I’m going to teach you and Manon how to make a detailed profit and loss statement. If you do this every week, you won’t have to wait for your accountant’s visit to know how you’re doing.”

Jeanne nodded, her eyes trained on the screen. When she looked up, they were glistening. “Really?”

“I know—I’m too generous for my own good.” Amanda shrugged. “But I don’t plan on working here forever.”

Jeanne smiled. “I meant, are you sure we made a profit last month?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “I checked everything three times. The margin of error is negligible.”

Jeanne leaned forward and gave her a hug.

“Is this your first month in the black?” Amanda asked.

“Yep. And I pray to God it won’t be the last!” Jeanne let go of her. “Or else I’m in serious trouble.”

“If your expenses remain at this level, you’ll do just fine.” Amanda patted her back. “Unless something goes wrong . . . Which doesn’t take much in this kind of business.”

Jeanne smirked. “Now I’m feeling a lot better, thanks.” She glanced at her watch and frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.

“It’s almost eleven and Claude hasn’t arrived yet.” Jeanne reached for her phone. “I hope he hasn’t relapsed.”

Amanda watched her pull up Claude’s number, call, wait, bite her nails, and leave a message.

Thirty seconds later, Jeanne’s phone beeped. It was a text from Claude.

I can’t come in today. Sorry.

“Shit,” Jeanne said, looking at her phone. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Amanda touched Jeanne’s arm. “Don’t panic. It’s just one day.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to be longer than that.” Jeanne sighed. “Claude suffers from depression. This means he’s in for another bout.”

“How long do they last?”

“Two to six weeks. Three on average.”

“Is there a temp you can bring in?”

“Of course,” Jeanne said. “We have three relief chefs. The problem is none of them are available for today. I checked yesterday afternoon when Claude started crying over some bad strawberries.”

“Can you or anyone else cook?”

Jeanne shook her head. “Not for thirty covers at a time.” She clasped her hands over her head. “I’m screwed. We’ll have to close for the day.”

“How far does Claude live?” Amanda asked.

“He’s in the Tenth. Why?”

“I may be able to lure him out of his lair . . . at least for a few hours.”

Jeanne chewed her lip. “How?”

“I watched tons of daytime TV when I was jobless. There was this program about depression and how you can stave off an attack if you catch it early enough.”

“Amanda, what Claude needs is to see his doc and start taking his meds, not some quackery you gleaned from TV.”

“Amen to that.” Amanda shut the laptop. “Listen, I’m just offering to try and get Claude to come into work today. He can go on sick leave and start his treatment tomorrow when you have your temp.”

Jeanne hesitated. “What’s your plan, exactly?”

“Do you think he’ll open the door for us?”

“I guess . . . But I can’t be sure. Say he does . . . Are you going to hypnotize him or shame him into action?”

“Neither.” Amanda smiled. “I’m going to feed him and play music.”

Jeanne gave her a long look and sighed. “So, that’s your plan—food and music?”

“Exactly. And it’s scientific.” Amanda stood and grabbed her purse. “Give me fifteen minutes to get what I need, and I’ll explain the details on the way to Claude’s.”

Jeanne nodded, and Amanda ran to the supermarket down the street. As she made her purchases, she felt the familiar rush of adrenaline she used to get when faced with a difficult situation at work or a problem that needed tackling. Was she sure her method would work? Nope. Maybe all that “mind over mood” and “food over mood” stuff they’d raved about on TV was no more than a scam.

But then again, maybe not. Either way, what harm could a healthy dinner and some upbeat music do? None whatsoever. It was definitely worth a try.

“Details, please,” Jeanne demanded half an hour later as they strode in the direction of Claude’s place.

“I took some herring salad from our fridge and bought a bag of walnuts, three turkey breasts, and dark chocolate at the supermarket.”

“Are you going to give Claude a cooking lesson?”

Amanda smiled and shook her head. “I’m going to feed him some ‘happy’ food. Turkey, walnuts, and dark chocolate contain chemicals that make people produce more feel-good serotonin.”

“Hon—”

“I know, I know,” Amanda said. “Turkey is no Prozac, and I’m no psychiatrist. But it may work. And then I’ll play him some reggae from my ‘rainy day’ playlist.”

“You have a ‘rainy day’ playlist?”

Amanda clucked her tongue. “That’s an irrelevant question. What you should be asking is why?”

“Why?”

“Reggae music always puts you in a better mood.”

“Except when it doesn’t,” Jeanne said.

They arrived at Claude’s address, and Jeanne pressed the buzzer.

As they waited for Claude to answer, Amanda refocused her thoughts on the problem at hand. She could do this—she was great at finding creative solutions. Getting Claude to return with them to La Bohème sounded easier than some of the situations she’d solved at ENS. Her heart beat faster, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

Come on, Claude. Open that door. Let us in.

He did.

But things didn’t go quite as planned.