“WOW,” BASTIEN SAID NOW, as they entered the apartment that took up the entire floor. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“What were you expecting?” she asked as she put her purse on a small curved table painted in a pastoral scene by the front door. A gilded bronze mirror in one of the Louis styles—she forgot which one—hung on the buttery-yellow wall above the table.
Desiree was well aware that her apartment didn’t fit in with the typical Northwest design style. Or the heavy, and to her mind cluttered, historical Victorian homes throughout town that always showed up on the annual home tour circuit. Fortunately, Seth, who’d remodeled both what had once been Fran’s Bakery and this upstairs apartment, which had only been used for storage and, it had turned out, a home for mice and spiders the size of her hand, had caught on to her vision right away.
“I don’t know because I hadn’t given it a lot of thought,” Bastien said, taking in the buttery-yellow walls that brightened up the long, dark days of winter and the rains of spring. “But it wasn’t this.”
Tall blue draperies hung from the tops of fifteen-foot-high walls boasting wide white crown molding to puddle on the floor. Desiree never would’ve been able to afford that luxury if Sarah Mannion hadn’t sewn those drapes herself. There were prints and paintings in a variety of frames and eclectic styles—scenes of Paris, of New Orleans, bright and colorful modern art and more classic art prints, like the mother bathing her child in a porcelain bowl—all of which she’d unearthed at various garage sales and flea markets Sarah had taken her to visit.
“I knew wherever you lived would be pretty, like you. And feminine. Again like you.” He swept a long, slow look over her that once would’ve had her panties melting on the spot. But not tonight, she sternly told the rebellious, reckless body of her youth. “But I didn’t expect to find myself back home. Though this is more like the Garden District than my grand-mère’s double shotgun house.”
There were times, whenever she’d have people over for the first time, when she’d watch their eyes open wide and she’d wonder if she’d perhaps overdone the formality. But that feeling would only last a moment as her guests would immediately settle in and she’d watch the cares of their day fall away, just as hers did whenever she came upstairs from the bakery.
“Brianna’s mother, Sarah, designed it for me. She’s principal of the high school, but is taking design classes at the community college so she can have a new career in retirement. She used this apartment as a class project that entailed adding residential space to a commercial building. Usually people go industrial loft style in these old places. But I don’t feel at home in that type of space.
“Some of the things, like the Mardi Gras masks on the bookshelves, we ordered online, and the art on the walls were all my choices, but it was as if she somehow was inside my head, reading the thoughts I couldn’t quite put into words.”
She definitely wasn’t going to put into words the thoughts she was having now. Like how much she wanted him to lift up her skirt and take her hard and fast against the door. Stop that, she told her bad, bad head, dragging it back to a safer topic.
“Both Seth and Sarah had understood that as much as I love Honeymoon Harbor, I wanted a blend of New Orleans and Paris.”
Bastien stuck his hands in his back pockets, looking up at the oversize bronze-gold chandelier dripping with crystals that created rainbows on the walls. “That looks like an authentic plaster medallion.”
“It is. Seth found it down in Portland. It was badly chipped, but his father, Ben—”
“Who would be the husband of Caroline.”
“That would be him.” She smiled at the way he kept mapping out the connections between all the people he’d met today. “He’s one of the few remaining old-time master plasterers. His family built most of the original buildings in town and, as you can see, he managed to repair it beautifully”.
Sarah had covered a reproduction curved, Louis XV–style sofa in a deep blue velvet. Desiree had decided against sanding and repainting the cracked and peeling paint that gave the piece character and enjoyed imagining all the families who’d owned it before her. As they passed the sofa, an unwanted image of making love to him on that soft velvet flashed through her newly sex-crazed mind.
An archway through the tall brick, much like the one Bastien had suggested to connect her bakery to her restaurant, led to her kitchen, where she’d replaced the top cabinets with open shelves, and had Seth install a deep farm sink, marble countertop and a vintage, butcher-block-topped wheeled table to use as an island.
Bastien put the groceries down on the marble countertop while she went out onto the wrought iron railed balcony that allowed her to keep a small kitchen garden in pots and sit with her morning coffee, breathe in the aroma of fresh herbs and watch the boats on the water.
“Nice setup,” he said when she’d returned with a tomato and leaves of basil. “I like the espresso machine.”
“During the day, I’ll run down to Cops and Coffee. But this is my sanctuary, so I like my coffee French. And before you ask, I do leave out the chicory.”
“Not a bad call, in my opinion,” he agreed. “It took a while, but I talked grand-mère out of putting it in the café coffee.”
“Would you like some wine?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t turn it down. I’d say we earned it today. Especially you, who, along with stepping in to perform, also did all that baking.”
“Ah, but you’re cooking dinner when we could have ordered out. Or picked up an already cooked chicken at the market.”
“Bite your tongue,” he said as he laid out his ingredients. “So you still don’t sing at all, cher?”
“Only to myself.” She got out a bottle of an Oregon Sauvignon Blanc that always reminded her of the Pouilly-Fumé they’d drunk that with that lunch at the little bistro beside the Seine and poured them each a glass. “When I’m alone baking.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You still have some amazing pipes.”
While she got the ingredients for the bruschetta out of the refrigerator, Bastien washed the vegetables, then began chopping carrots, green pepper, and onion—the “Holy Trinity” of Cajun food. “The first time I heard you, singing that solo for ‘Joyeux Noël,’ I thought I’d died right there in Jackson Square, because I knew only an angel could sound so sweet.”
He looked up from peeling the shrimp. “You looked like an angel come down from heaven, too.”
“It’s not going to work this time, Bastien.” Oh, but it was. As it had been more and more all day. She sliced the bread on the diagonal and rubbed it with a garlic clove.
“What?”
“The famous Broussard charm offensive,” she answered as she brushed olive oil onto the bread, then put it beneath the broiler.
“It’s the truth.” Behind her, shrimp shells boiled in a pot along with leftover bits of vegetables to make stock.
He’d always been as serious about his cooking as she was about baking. The difference, she thought now, that baking was chemistry, while cooking, at least how he did it, was more art. Each fit their personalities. Except when it came to this man, her head tended to rule her heart, while he’d always worn his heart out in the open on his sleeve.
“It’s good to be back in the kitchen together,” he said. “The same way it was good to sing together at the wedding.”
There was no point in lying about the connection; it had felt like that first night they’d strolled through the Quarter, singing together. On Bourbon Street, as they’d stood on a corner, waiting for the light to change, a man had come up and handed Desiree a dollar. “You’re a true professional now,” Bastien had told her, making her laugh. But it had still felt rewarding.
“I’m sorry the musician Brianna hired cut her hand, but it was fun to sing again,” Desiree admitted. The bread had browned. She put it on the butcher-block island counter, cut up the tomato, rolled up the basil leaves and cut them en chiffionade from either side up to the bitter stem, which she tossed away. “Especially at such a happy occasion.” She spread on the goat cheese, then topped the bread and cheese with tomato, basil and capers.
“That was a nice story about how they met at that World War Two cemetery in France,” he said. “And each knew, at that moment, that they were meant for each other.”
“I suspect it was more lust at first sight,” she said, her tone as dry and crisp as her wine.
“I don’t remember you being so cynical. I believe it was true love. I certainly fell in love when I heard you, even before I turned around and saw you. But I’m not going to deny that while you looked and sounded an angel, my thoughts had nothing to do with heaven. Perhaps lust is merely fate’s way to get us to pay attention to the person we’re supposed to fall in love with.”
“I’ve never met a man who says the L word so easily,” she said.
“Known a lot of men, have you, cher?” Bastien took a bite of bruschetta she held out to him.
“Most of the students in pastry classes admittedly tend to be women. But I’ve met my share of male bakers, and both students and restaurant chefs tend to sit around and drink late into the night talking about all sorts of different personal things. Sex included, naturally. But love is never mentioned.”
“Now see, that’s the difference. It’s not like I throw it around like confetti or Mardi Gras beads. Had I been with other women before you? Yes. Had I ever told any other woman that I loved her? That would be a hard no. It was a word I was saving. When I went back to the guys in the band the next morning, I told them that I’d not only found our front girl, I’d found the girl I was going to marry.”
It had been the same for her. Except she’d been a virgin when, the third night after she’d joined the band, they’d made slow, tender love on a lumpy double bed in his small, three-floor walk-up studio apartment on Dauphine Street.
“Sometimes I wonder if I moved too fast,” he mused. “Being that I was your first lover, perhaps you thought sex always felt that special, that right, and maybe took our love, not for granted, exactly, but as something you could feel for any man you were attracted to. Any other man who you might want to be with.”
“You have it backward,” she said. “You’re right about me always connecting sex with love. I still do. I used to think it was my Catholic upbringing, but now I believe I’m just hard-wired that way. I always knew that when I did have sex with a man, he’d have to be someone I loved. And could see myself loving forever.”
“Okay.” He blew out a breath. “I promised myself that this time, I’d tell you how I felt and give you time to get used to the idea. So, demonstrating that I do have a degree of self-control where you’re concerned, I’m not going to make love with you tonight.”
“Well, for once we’re on the same page,” she said, not quite truthfully, remembering that flash of fantasy about him taking her up against the door.
“We always have been, cher.” He looked at her over his wineglass. “Sometimes we just get a bit lost in translation.” He turned down the stock pot. “We’ve a while yet before I need to make the roux. Why don’t we enjoy our wine outside on that pretty little New Orleans balcony and enjoy the sunset?”
It was a perfect evening. The sun had turned the blue water to gold and copper. Sailboats skimmed across the gilded water, while more energetic kayakers paddled closer to shore.
“I’ve been thinking of taking sailing lessons,” she said. “It looks so freeing.”
“Maybe we could take them together, and then I could sail you to some hidden cove where we could drop anchor and make love in the moonlight.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about sex.”
“I said we weren’t making love,” he corrected her. “But I don’t remember you saying we couldn’t talk about it.” He took another bite of the crunchy bruschetta. “This is delicious.”
“It’s simple,” she said. “But fresh herbs make it so much better. I was thinking of putting my garden on the patio, but then I’d have to go all the way downstairs any time I wanted something, and the pots would take up room I needed for customers. The balcony was Seth’s idea.”
“He’s very talented. I’d glad there’s someone local with the talent and vision to create my space for Sensation Cajun.”
“As I said, his family built most of this town. Each generation has taught the next. They and the Mannions are Honeymoon Harbor.” She told him of the ancient feud.
“So now he and Brianna Mannion will be connecting the family in a more personal way,” he said.
She smiled, then took a sip of wine. “I’ve been told there have been inter-family marriages over the years, but John and Sarah Mannion beat them to it. She was Sarah Harper before she married John. He’s mayor, she’s the principal, and together they run the Mannion family Christmas tree farm. They have a big festival from the day after Thanksgiving to until Christmas Day. It’s a wonderful community tradition.”
“We’ll have to go and celebrate my first Northwest Christmas together.”
“If you’re still here.”
His eyes met hers and held. Her hormones were pinging around like steel balls in a pinball machine, and he was positively radiating testosterone. “I told you,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What if I leave? I had some very good offers in Seattle and Portland before deciding to settle here after a visit.”
“Then I’ll move to Seattle or Portland.”
“Even if you’ve finished building your restaurant?”
He lifted his broad shoulders and took another, longer drink of wine. “I’m betting that you have no intention of leaving. It’s obvious you’ve woven yourself into the fabric of this town’s life. But, it’s only a building, Desiree. To be with you, I could walk away from it, as I did the one I sold to my cousin to come here, without a backward glance.”
He put his glass on the little bistro table between them, turned toward her and took her hand. “Here’s the thing you need to understand,” he said. “I already let you leave twice.”
“You never asked me to stay. Not even after Paris.” And hadn’t that hurt?
“Only because I was afraid you might. I knew band life wasn’t for you, even though you could have been a star.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“It’s true. You were the whole package, Desiree. But you hated the touring. Being crowded into that old van before we could afford to lease a decent bus. Never having a moment to yourself. The crowds, the fans. They weren’t for you.”
“You enjoyed them.”
“I did,” he admitted. “More so after you left.”
“Well, if you’re trying to make me feel better, that certainly doesn’t.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It was because I didn’t have to watch you fight your growing stage fright every night. And I no longer woke up every morning wondering if that was the day you’d leave.”
“I never told you I had stage fright. And it was more anxiety. I’m a quiet person at heart, Bastien. That’s one of the things I love about baking. I do it early in the morning, when it’s dark and the town is still sleeping. It’s a special, silent time when I can have my thoughts to myself.”
“Not so silent, I suspect,” he said. “Since you sing while you work.”
“You’ve caught me,” she admitted with a smile.
“You hid the anxiety well,” he said. “But I knew. There were so many times I thought I should lie and tell you that I didn’t love you because I knew how we’d eventually turn out. But I was selfish and wanted every minute I could have with you.
“The first time you left, I understood that you needed to go to school and learn your craft. Having grown up working in a kitchen, I totally got that. Which is why I didn’t say a word to discourage you. The second time, you were flush with your shiny new culinary diplomas and ready to spread your wings in the big city. No way was I going to try to deny you that...
“But now you’ve reached the stage in your life when you need a place to settle. Nest. Make a home.”
How well he knew her. As she gazed at Bastien, Desiree felt all her excuses leave her heart with the setting sun.
“And I’m going to do everything I can to convince you to allow me to be part of your home. To let me back into your heart.”
“You’ve never left.” The admission in her soft voice vibrated with emotion.
He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and although she hadn’t realized that he’d been stressed, she could see the tension leaving his body. “I made a promise. Back there in the kitchen.”
“You did,” she said. “And I had every intention of holding you to it.” She laid her free hand on the one that was holding hers. “But haven’t you heard? It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
He stood up, bringing her with him. “The shrimp stock gets better the longer it simmers,” he said.
“Then it’s going to be the best stock ever made,” she said, lifting her lips to his.