Chapter Eleven
I pulled into the lot outside Chez Margot, a French café on Main Street, after finishing my shopping the next day.
I passed the little restaurant every time I visited my favorite riverside grocer, and I itched to finally get a look inside.
Also, I was starving and in no mood to cook when I got home.
Twinkle lights wrapped support posts, and ivy climbed the redbrick exterior to a black-and-white-striped awning above the front door.
The delectable scents of baking bread and fresh basil floated in the air, and my stomach growled in anticipation.
If the food tasted half as good as it smelled, I’d never eat anywhere else again.
The interior decor continued the outside theme. Black accents, exposed bricks, and a plethora of plants made the space feel cheery and inviting. Chatter and laughter lifted on the air.
A framed photo of a gorgeous dark-haired couple hung near the hostess stand, an image of the restaurant in the background. The man’s eyes were kind and the woman’s smile enchanting. I’d never looked as happy or at ease in photos with Robert. I envied them both immediately.
Why did I spend two decades feeling insecure and uncertain with Robert when I could’ve been independent and free?
“Can I help you?” a man called, striding purposefully in my direction.
His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
A few wrinkles formed at the edges of his mouth and eyes as he smiled.
He looked older than in the photo, but I recognized him immediately.
The platinum wedding band on his left hand shone in the light.
“I’m just picking up something for lunch,” I said.
“Name?” he asked.
“Sophie, and you?”
He paused, then laughed.
It took a moment before I recognized my mistake.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said. “You weren’t asking my name to be friendly, and I’m not picking you up.
I mean, I’m not picking up lunch. No. I am,” I stammered.
“Here for lunch. Not you—” I stopped talking and wrinkled my nose.
Dear lord, I thought, utterly baffled. Was I this shaken by the presence of a handsome man? Or had hunger impacted my brain?
“You know what?” I turned, waved, then marched back the way I’d come in, so I could die in peace.
“Wait,” he called. “Where are you going?”
I stopped just short of the exit and peered over my shoulder at him. “Oh, I’m going to walk into traffic now.”
He burst into laughter and motioned me back. A dimple sank in one cheek as he grinned.
I immediately hated myself for finding another woman’s husband so ridiculously attractive.
Maybe hunger really had addled my brain.
“I think we should start over,” he said. “I’m Lucas.”
A young woman in braids and a polo shirt with the restaurant’s logo rounded the corner, then stopped short. Her eyes went wide at the sight of us, and she hurried in our direction. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear anyone come in,” she explained. “My apologies.”
He waved her off, eyes fixed on me. “No, it’s fine, Pam. Sophie and I were just talking. Will you take a bottle of merlot to the couple at table twelve? It’s their anniversary.”
“Of course.” She offered a polite smile, then hurried away.
Lucas stretched out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I accepted the shake and fought a goofy smile. “I’m having a really weird day,” I said. “I think I just need to eat.”
“You came to the right place,” he said. “This is my restaurant, and I happen to know everything on the menu is fantastic, because I’m frequently the chef.”
A slight French accent tipped the words as he spoke, adding impossibly to his charm.
He released my hand after a little squeeze, then pulled a menu from behind the hostess stand. “Are you in the mood for anything specific?”
I bit my lip to stop myself from admitting I would gladly eat a week’s worth of anything put in front of me. “I don’t know,” I said instead. “Maybe a salad.”
“I thought you were hungry.” He winked, and the strange sensation of sparks prickled through me. “Come with me,” he said. “If you want to sit at the bar, I’ll put together a sampler so you can find a new favorite.”
He led me through the dining room, past red vinyl booths and herbs hung in planters on the walls. I marveled at the garden of ingredients just waiting to serve their life’s purpose.
Lucas placed a glass of iced water on the bar before an empty high-backed chair. His wedding ring glinted in the light.
I climbed into the seat and looked at the menu, embarrassed by the odd feelings this benign conversation caused me, and the heat rushing across my cheeks in response. We aren’t flirting, I assured myself. He was a polite business owner and, clearly, a proudly married man.
Maybe that was the appealing part. I deeply appreciated a man so happily in love. Was it possible that some men really do cherish their wives? Cameron did. Surely he wasn’t the only one.
“See anything you like?” he asked.
I forced myself to meet his eyes and nodded. “Everything looks fantastic, but I don’t know much about French food.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is that right?”
I nodded, thinking of my French ancestry. I really should learn more. “I mean, I’m obviously a big fan of olive tapenade.”
“Obviously.” He crossed his arms.
“I also know my way around a bowl of French onion soup.”
“We just call it onion soup,” he teased.
“Noted.” I returned my attention to the menu and concentrated on the unfamiliar dishes. Then I felt the drool form at the corners of my mouth. “You have crepes.”
“Of course,” Lucas said.
“I love crepes.”
He caught my eye and pursed his lips. “Good to know.”
An older couple called his name on their way to the register. He responded by asking about their family and a shared neighbor.
I hadn’t visited a restaurant with such a comfortable community vibe since college. I gave the restaurant’s dining room a more thorough inspection and soaked up the ambience. French loaves sat on tables with small pots of butter. Fleur-de-lis accents adorned the menus and place mats.
A random thought popped into mind, and I nearly rolled my eyes in response.
Mom told me more than once that she’d named me Sophie after a French princess, Sophie Philippine élisabeth Justine.
The French often referred to her as Sophie of France.
I’d assumed the inspiration came from Mom’s trip to the country in the year I was born.
I never suspected how true that was.
The Chez Margot logo atop each page put a new question on my tongue. “Is Margot a family name?” I asked.
“It was my wife’s name,” he said. Lucas’s wistful smile made it clear that he adored her. The past tense, however, gave me pause.
My gaze fell to his ring finger, and he caught me looking. “Oh. Is she—”
“Hit and run,” he said. “It was seven years ago. Police suspect a drunk driver.” He shrugged, but I could see the story cost him. He spun the ring with his thumb while he spoke. “She closed up late for me one night so I could catch up on paperwork. She didn’t make it home.”
My mouth opened, but words failed me. I couldn’t imagine losing someone I loved so much I’d wear their wedding ring all these years later.
I couldn’t imagine being loved that much.
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
He smiled. “I feel her here with me most days. Usually critiquing my sauces.” He pulled a bottle of wine from the shelf behind him and poured a few ounces into a glass, then passed it to me. “This was her favorite. How do you feel about Riesling?”
“Good.” I accepted the glass, straight-faced, while recalling the way Alicia and I demolished ten-dollar bottles with screw-top lids. I knew less about quality wine than French food.
“This one is from Alsace, a favorite region of mine for Rieslings. You enjoy this. I’ll get started on your lunch.”
An hour and far too many food samples later, I was stuffed and ready for a nap. I delighted in the homey atmosphere and sense of belonging. No one questioned the cost of my meal or commented on the likely amount of calories. Pure heaven.
Lucas emerged from the kitchen, a dish towel hung over one shoulder, as I pushed the final plate away. “What’s the verdict?”
“Someone will have to roll me home.”
His dark eyes danced with amusement. “But what was your favorite?”
“The crepes,” I admitted. “I wish I could make them like this, and believe me, I’ve tried. But they never come out quite right.”
“So, you’re a cook.” His eyes narrowed. “I should have known.”
I wagged a finger, feeling the effects of my second glass of wine. “No. Just a woman who loves crepes.”
Lines gathered on his handsome face, and he reached beneath the high-polished bar. “Well, we can fix that.” Lucas placed a flyer before me, then took the dirty plate away.
I turned the paper in my direction when he left. The flyer advertised community classes available at the restaurant. All were open to the public. Authentic French cooking classes, wine tasting, crepe making. I grinned. I supposed I was in luck.
“You can learn to cancan on Saturday nights,” he said, reappearing with a handled to-go bag. “It’s a lot of fun. Please say you can can.”
I straightened my expression and shook my head at his terrible joke. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“No pressure,” Lucas said.
I finished my glass of water, marveling at the local gem of a restaurant. “Did you grow up here?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I meant in the area or the country, but his accent suggested he wasn’t raised here. Maybe he’d come for college.
“I came to America as an adolescent, then returned to France after high school for a culinary program. I considered going back again after Margot’s death, but we built this place together, so I stayed.”
“I think it’s nice you still wear your wedding ring,” I said. The words came out before I thought better of them. “It’s clearly none of my business,” I added, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “But nice.”
His lips curved gently at the corners. “My family thinks it’s too much, but the ring makes me feel connected to her somehow. I suppose I’ll wear it until another woman wins my heart.”
The young woman with the braids strode into view, phone in hand. “Lucas, Emily.”
He dragged his eyes from me to her and nodded before turning back. “It was nice meeting you, Sophie.”
“You too,” I said. “Do I pay up front?”
“No, no. On the house,” he said, already moving in the direction of the woman and phone.
“Wait,” I squeaked, sliding onto my feet. “I can’t let you do that.”
“You can,” he said. “Don’t forget your bag.”
I looked at the to-go order on the bar before me. Sophie was written in Sharpie near the top.
Lucas was nowhere to be seen as I left the building, but a peek inside the bag made me smile.
Crepes.