They were ready to start the job interviews. Pierre and his two lieutenants—Jeanne and Didier—sat next to each other on one side of the large teak table that dominated the bistro’s tiny backyard. On the other side of the table, they’d placed a lonely chair for the applicants. La Bohème had been a man short for a couple of weeks now, which put an extra strain on everyone, but especially on Manon and Jimmy, the front of the house servers. This was why Pierre had lined up four interviews for this afternoon and was determined to hire one of the candidates on the spot.

“I hope it doesn’t rain,” Jeanne said puckering her face at the uncertain sky.

Didier shrugged. “It was your idea to do this outside.”

“It’s not like we can’t move back in if it starts raining,” Pierre said, browsing through the stack of paper in front of him. “The first candidate arrives in ten minutes, so I suggest you both take another look at their CVs and the questions I asked you to prepare.”

Jeanne scanned her copies. None of the four candidates had waited tables before, but then, everyone had to start somewhere. Two of them were students, so they’d probably be only interested in evening shifts, which was fine.

“We’ll have to train whoever we hire from this batch.” Didier shook his head disapprovingly.

Pierre put his papers down. “And so we will. Regardless of how much pride we take in our trade, let’s face it—rocket science it is not.”

“I disagree.” Didier gave him a disgruntled look. “I did three years of specialized school before applying for my first serving job. I was a professional compared to these greenhorns.”

“Well, there aren’t enough professionals to go around,” Pierre said. “So we have to make do with amateurs.”

Manon appeared in the doorway, bowed ceremoniously and said far too politely, “Excuse me for interrupting, messieurs-dames, but the first candidate has arrived. Shall I show him in . . . um, out here?”

Pierre smiled. “Please.”

Manon stepped sideways, making way for an elegantly dressed young woman. She walked slowly toward the empty chair and greeted the trio with a bright smile.

One point for style.

Jeanne remembered the hardcore Gothic look she’d been sporting when Pierre hired her six years ago. He must have been feeling brave that day. Or desperate.

“Please, sit down.” Pierre pointed to the lonely chair.

“You study communication and marketing,” Didier said, scanning the woman’s CV. “Why are you applying for this job?”

“I need more pocket money than my parents are giving me,” the woman said.

“Do you realize this is hard work?” Jeanne asked.

The woman shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Jeanne was beginning to find her slightly off-putting, but told herself not to jump to conclusions. Before she could ask her next question, a phone went off in the woman’s purse.

“Excuse me,” she said with the same polite smile and opened her handbag to retrieve a latest iPhone. “Salut,” she purred into the phone. “I’m fine. What about you? . . . No kidding? When? . . . What did she say exactly?”

Didier cleared his throat.

Jeanne tapped her pen on the table.

“Shall we give you some privacy and return in twenty minutes?” Pierre asked.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” The woman beamed, the irony of Pierre’s words completely lost on her.

The interview panel exchanged amused looks, marched inside the bistro, had a coffee and returned twenty minutes later.

The woman had finished her conversation.

“You’re really nice, you know? I’m sure we’ll get along famously,” she said.

“Thank you for your time,” Pierre said.

“Is the interview over already?”

“We’ll be in touch,” Didier said, poker-faced.

“Or not,” Jeanne added, reluctant to give her false hopes.

The second candidate was an accounting student who told them he was a “numbers person” and hated dealing with people. The third one was a middle-aged woman who, within the space of fifteen minutes, managed to tell them about her epic divorce, her landlord’s refusal to repaint her apartment, the mistress of her former boss, and her recent thyroid surgery. She blew her nose every thirty seconds using paper tissues she pulled from her bottomless tote bag. She then neatly folded each used tissue and put it next to the previous one on the table in front of her.

Jeanne crossed her fingers by the time the last candidate lowered himself on the chair. The combination of his name, face, and zip code on his CV suggested he was a son of North African immigrant workers.

“Why have you applied for this job, Amar?” Jeanne asked.

“I’m a pro football player, but I sustained a nasty knee injury six months ago, and had to give up on football.”

“Are you saying that waiting tables is the only alternative to professional sports?” Didier asked.

“No. But until I figure out what I want to do, it’s a better alternative than many others I can think of.”

Well said, Jeanne thought.

“Waiting tables requires a lot of walking,” Pierre said. “Would your injury allow it?”

“Without a problem. There’s a big difference between walking between tables and sprinting around a football field.”

“You’re only twenty-one, and this would be your first proper job. How can we be sure you’ll manage?” Didier asked.

“I guess you’d have to trust your judgment,” Amar said with a small smile.

But Didier wasn’t finished yet. He opened his notebook and read, “Please describe your best professional quality using just one word.”

“I’m very good at following the instructions I’m given,” Amar said gravely.

Jeanne frowned, until she noticed the corners of his mouth twitch. A second later, a sly grin spread on his face.

She burst out in laughter.

“You’re hired,” Pierre said, smiling. “Can you start tomorrow?”

A little after midnight, Jeanne closed the bistro and headed home. She was dog-tired. Working double shifts for the past three weeks had affected her physically. On one level, at least, it was a good thing. The more her muscles ached and her head pounded, the less she thought about Mat. She’d discovered this effect shortly after the unfortunate incident at Lena’s engagement party and was determined to exploit it fully until she purged him from her system.

Stepping into the lobby of her building, Jeanne walked past the concierge’s loge and stopped in front of the door to her apartment. Lucky thing she lived on the ground floor. She couldn’t imagine climbing even one flight of stairs right now. As she fumbled with her keys, she focused on one thing: a hot bath—a steaming, bubbly, foamy bath, with an old Sting album in the background and a scented candle flickering on the shelf above the tub. She’d soak until the last bit of tension, the last ache, left her body and then she’d turn in. This was the best way to fall asleep as soon as she hit the bed.

The apartment felt stuffy, so Jeanne opened the window to the inner courtyard and began to run her bath. As she browsed through her music collection, a thumping sound and a shrill female scream pierced the air. Then a male voice shouted something unintelligible.

“Get out of here!” the woman yelled.

More racket followed, something heavy hit the floor, and then a kid—a boy by the sound of it—shrieked, “Stop it, please, stop it!”

Jeanne turned off the tap and rushed to the window. The voices came from the concierge’s loge. The concierge, whose name Jeanne couldn’t remember, had been hired by the condo a couple of weeks ago after the previous one retired. Jeanne tried to remember what the woman looked like. Small, frail, curly-haired, late twenties maybe? Her face was a blur. Did she have a child? And who was she was fighting with? Should she intervene?

Someone slammed a door and a female voice said soothingly, “It’s over, baby, he’s gone now. He’s just had too much to drink. He didn’t mean any harm.”

Jeanne waited a little longer to make sure the man wasn’t coming back before she closed her window and went back to the bathroom.

* * *

Amar jogged over to the kitchen pass-through. “Table three want their steaks cremated.”

“Got it,” Claude replied.

Amar nodded and hurried back to the dining room.

Jeanne smiled privately. They’d made a good choice. In less than three weeks, Amar had learned an incredible amount, improving his waiting skills and picking up the bistro jargon as he progressed. The boy was a natural.

After another hour of hustle and bustle, the last lunch customer left the bistro, and time slowed its pace from furious gallop to a leisurely amble. Jeanne glanced at her watch. She had about three hours until things got hectic again. Enough time to make a coffee and finish the novel she’d started last week. That is, unless Didier wanted to chat.

A couple of weeks ago he’d become uncommonly chummy, which was weird. They’d worked together for many years now, but they’d never been friends. Now was hardly a good time to develop a friendship. Had he forgotten they were rivals competing for the same prize—La Bohème?

Jeanne sighed. Pierre hadn’t yet given any indication as to whom he favored. He and Didier went back a long way and saw eye to eye . . . But Pierre was also known to have a quasi-paternal affection for her.

Jeanne pulled her book from her purse and hurried to the coffee machine. If she was quick, she’d be out of the bar area and engrossed in her book by the time Didier showed up. And if she was lucky, he wouldn’t intrude on her down time. Unless his sudden friendliness was part of some diabolic plan to get her to withdraw her bid.

Like that was ever going to happen.

Jeanne picked up her fragrant cup and her book and strode to her favorite corner by the window. As soon as her butt touched the padded bench, she opened the book and started reading.

Someone cleared his throat above her. She looked up expecting to see Didier, but it wasn’t him.

“I need to talk to you, Jeanne, if you can spare a minute,” Pierre said.

“Sure.” She shut her book. “I’m all ears.”

“Just a second, let’s wait for Didier to join us,” Pierre said. “I want to talk to both of you.”

Jeanne cocked her head. “Are you sure?”

Pierre nodded.

As soon as Didier arrived, the two men sat across from Jeanne.

“I’ll cut straight to the chase,” Pierre said.

She glanced at Didier. He was leaning in, his jaws clenched.

“As you know, I’m retiring in a year,” Pierre said. “Both of you have approached me about the bistro.”

Jeanne nodded.

“That’s correct,” Didier said.

“I’ve known you both for years, and love you almost like my own children.” Pierre smirked. “And probably more than my nephews.”

“Are you going to tell us one of your children has finally expressed an interest in the bistro?” Didier asked, his eyes narrowing.

Pierre waved his question off. “There’s no hope of that. My children think running a restaurant is too much work for too little money. And they’re right.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But you both love this place—love this job—you’re competent, capable and motivated. It’s breaking my heart to have to choose between you two.”

“So, what do you propose?” Jeanne asked.

“I don’t know,” Pierre confessed. “I just wanted us to put it out in the open. I wanted the three of us to talk about it . . . but I don’t have a solution yet. I’ve got a year to figure it out—unless one of you changes their mind in the meantime.”

“Not me,” Jeanne said.

“What if you didn’t have to choose?” Didier asked mysteriously.

“What do you mean? Are you forfeiting?” Pierre gave him a puzzled look.

“Not a chance,” Didier said. “But what if Jeanne and I came to some sort of . . . understanding about this affair?”

“What, like partnering to buy La Bohème together?” Jeanne asked.

“Something like that,” Didier said.

Well, this explained his recent friendliness.

The idea appeared great… but only on the surface. First, Jeanne had savings and several loan options: her parents, Lena and Rob, her bank. She certainly didn’t need a partner to help her buy the place. Second, even though she’d never had any quarrel with Didier, she had no particular affinity for him either. So, no, she wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

“That would be brilliant!” Pierre looked so relieved it was touching.

“Wouldn’t it?” Didier turned to Jeanne.

“I don’t think—” she began.

“Listen, Jeanne,” Didier said, placing his hand on her arm. “You don’t need to decide or even say anything now. Give yourself some time to process the idea. You may change your mind and find it as appealing as I do.” He gave her a long look that made her uncomfortable.

“I hope you will, girl,” Pierre said. “I hope you’ll do us all a huge favor and change your mind.”

* * *

Jeanne glanced at her watch for the third time in five minutes. She had to make a decision, and quickly. One option was to wait ten more minutes and elbow her way through the crowd to get on the next métro train. The risk associated with that option was if she failed, she’d be stuck here for another twenty minutes. At least. According to a well-established Parisian tradition, the métro workers were on strike, effectively disrupting the routines of hundreds of thousands of people.

The other option was to call Didier, ask him to brave rush hour, and drive to rue Cadet to collect her. She decided to give the métro another chance.

The evening before, Pierre had beckoned to her and Didier. “I want you two to go to Baleville tomorrow morning.”

Jeanne’s mouth fell open. Why did Pierre want her and Didier to go to Mat’s hometown?

“What for?” Didier asked.

“Our main cheese supplier, Monsieur Conchard, wants to showcase his new products. I suspect he may also want to renegotiate the prices.”

“Why won’t he come here?” Didier asked.

“He doesn’t feel like traveling to Paris with an assortment of smelly cheeses in the back of his car . . . and who can blame him?”

“So you want us to assess the new products and negotiate the prices, right?” Jeanne asked.

“It’s time you learned to swim on your own, children,” Pierre said. “Because in this business, you’ll be swimming with sharks.”

Jeanne smirked. “You make it sound so attractive.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Pierre said with a wink.

He gave them the necessary instructions and promised to keep his cell phone on. Jeanne agreed to meet Didier in front of his building at nine o’clock the next morning and drive to Baleville in his car. It was eight forty now. Jeanne clenched her fists and edged closer to the track. To hell with good manners—she was a shark in training, after all.

Twenty-five minutes later, she spotted Didier on the corner of his street, glancing at his watch. She waved. He beamed and waved back. And even though Jeanne knew why he was so friendly, she couldn’t help warming to him a little.

“I like this look of yours,” he said as she sat in the car.

She was wearing low-rise skinny jeans, a mustard-colored cashmere pullover, and a tailored leather jacket that reached the waistline of her jeans.

“You usually come and go from work dressed in the uniform,” he added.

“I live next door,” she said. “So it makes sense to change at home.”

They drove in silence for a little while.

“Have you been in Baleville before?” he asked after they got onto the A13.

“No, never.”

“It’s a nice town. Only twenty minutes from the sea, but much more affordable than seaside places like Deauville.”

“Sounds nice,” she said. “Do you know how big it is?”

Hopefully big enough to minimize the risk of running into Mat.

“Ten thousand or thereabouts,” he said.

A hundred thousand would’ve been better, but then again, ten is better than five.

“And it’s only an hour and a half from Paris,” he added.

Way too close, if you want my opinion.

Didier tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, looking pleased with himself. “If Monsieur Conchard doesn’t invite us to lunch, I’ll take you to Le Cheval Bleu. It’s a nice local restaurant I discovered a few years ago, when I toured the Cider Route with some friends.”

“I’ve wanted to do the Cider Route for years now, but instead I always end up going south,” Jeanne said.

“You’re from the south, aren’t you?”

“Nîmes. My family are still there and some good friends . . . Where are you from, by the way?” She realized she’d never bothered to ask Didier that basic question.

“I’m from Lille.” He smiled. “The Great French North.”

She smiled back. What a strange guy.

He enjoyed being mean to customers, but he was usually courteous with his colleagues. Now that she thought of it, he’d always been particularly nice to her.

They arrived in Baleville a little before eleven o’clock, parked in front of Monsieur Conchard’s shop, and ran inside to avoid getting soaked in the heavy rain. The supplier greeted them, an enthusiastic smile on his face. At twelve thirty they were done. As it turned out, Monsieur Conchard had no intention of a price hike, but only wanted La Bohème to order his new cheeses. Immensely relieved, Jeanne and Didier promised to call him within a week with a definitive answer.

“How about lunch? I’m starving,” Didier said as they stepped out onto the wet street. Fortunately, the rain had exhausted itself into a drizzle while they’d been inside with Monsieur Conchard.

“How can you still be hungry after tasting twenty different cheeses?” she teased.

“How can you not be hungry?” he retorted.

“If we leave now, we’ll avoid traffic, because everyone’s having lunch,” she offered.

“I’m not leaving without having eaten properly.”

Seeing his determination, Jeanne stopped arguing and followed him to his favorite restaurant. As they walked, she tried to form an opinion about the town. It wasn’t as pretty as the more touristy places in Normandy, but its half-timbered houses certainly had a lot of charm. And it was provincial through and through even compared to her hometown of Nîmes.

“Jeanne?”

She slowly turned away from the church they were passing, already knowing who it was. She’d recognized his voice. She would have recognized it in a crowd of people shouting her name.

“What are you doing here?” Mat stared at Jeanne as if she were an apparition.

“Meeting with a supplier,” Jeanne said before introducing the two men to each other.

“We’ve met before,” Mat said to Didier. “I used to frequent La Bohème a few years back, when Rob worked there.”

Didier put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Can’t recall.” He turned to Jeanne, “We need to hurry if we want to get a table.”

“Where are you guys headed?” Mat asked.

“Le Cheval Bleu—why?” Didier shot Mat a hostile look.

“What a coincidence! That’s where I’m going for lunch.”

“No kidding,” Jeanne said in her driest voice.

“It’s the best place in town, and I only go for the best.” Mat squinted at her and smiled his crooked smile. “Do you mind if I tag along? We could talk about our common friends and remember the good old times.”

Jeanne stole a glance at Didier. He’d folded his arms across his chest, lifted his head, and straightened as if trying to reach Mat’s height. His mouth had thinned into a hard line, and even though he remained silent, his body language was loud and clear.

This was a disaster in the making.

Yet some treacherous part of Jeanne’s mind was thrilled to spend the next hour in Mat’s company.

“Fine. Whatever.” Didier tugged at Jeanne’s sleeve. “Let’s move.”

“I’ll catch up with you,” Mat said. “Just need to make a quick phone call.”

Jeanne and Didier were already seated when Mat walked into the restaurant. He exchanged a handshake and a few warm words with the chef and the waiter who rushed to add a chair and utensils to Jeanne’s table.

After they ordered, Mat fixed his gaze on Jeanne, staring at her for much longer than was polite.

She shifted in her seat.

“I’m not used to seeing you in jeans,” he said by way of apology. “Either of you, that is,” he added, turning to Didier.

“Why, did you think I was born in a server uniform?” Didier asked, a muscle pulsing on his jaw.

Mat turned to Jeanne again. “I much prefer your current look to the Gothic stuff you wore outside work a few years ago.”

She smiled. “Oh yeah, my Gothic phase.”

“Do you still hang out with Goths?” Mat asked.

Jeanne shook her head. “I never did, actually. I was what the Goths call a poseur. I loved their esthetics, I copied their dress, but I never shared their worldview.”

“Which is?” Didier asked.

“A fascination with all things tragic and morbid,” Jeanne explained.

“Was that why you dyed your hair blue rather than black?” Mat asked.

“Yeah,” Jeanne said. “I guess it was my touch of rebellion against their rebellion . . . I never enjoyed Gothic music, either.”

“You used to like Sting,” Mat said.

“Still do.” Jeanne looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m faithful like that.”

Mat swallowed hard and held her gaze. For a few moments, no one spoke. Jeanne and Mat peered at each other, while Didier’s face grew tenser and redder by the second. Then, thankfully, their food arrived.

They ate in silence.

“It was nice seeing you . . . guys,” Mat said when they finished the meal and stood to leave.

“Take care,” Jeanne said.

Didier glared at him and walked out of the restaurant.

On their drive back, Jeanne thought of Mat, noting with satisfaction that her initial excitement was giving way to anger. He had no right to intrude on their meal. He had no right to look at her like that—as if she had mattered to him—or talk to her as if he had cared. He had no right to treat Didier with contempt.

Then she thought of Didier, telling herself he was a solid guy who had enough trust and respect for her to want to be her business partner.

And, possibly, more.