Chapter 4
Before they headed for New Orleans, Maurice opted for a quick shower and change of clothing at the boarding house he’d been living in since arriving in Bayou Mambaloa.
So many of his team had already transitioned out of the boarding house after finding love and commitment with some of the town’s residents.
Maurice had been looking at local real estate but had yet to commit.
None of the homes LaShawnda Jones, his realtor, had shown him had felt like home.
Not that he knew what that felt like anymore.
Growing up a military brat, every place they’d moved had always felt like home.
He’d never thought any differently or questioned it.
Looking at houses in Bayou Mambaloa, Maurice couldn’t find that natural, let your guard down and get comfortable feeling he’d had as a child. Watching his buddies fall in love and establish homes with their women was beginning to make something very clear.
Home wasn’t a place or building. It was who you were with.
Maurice thought he’d found that someone he could make a home with when he’d fallen for Sandy. Her death had hit him hard. Since then, he hadn’t been interested in finding a home or even a house.
The boarding house the Brotherhood Protectors had purchased was a transitional place where new recruits could live until they found permanent lodging.
Not having found permanent lodging, Maurice had stayed longer than temporarily. He’d only just started looking for a place of his own after living in the boarding house for nearly two years.
Amelie took the van to the gas station to fuel up while Maurice showered and changed.
He was waiting for her when she drove up outside the boarding house. Leaving his truck, he joined her in the bakery van.
As they drove into the city, Amelie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, her lips pressing into a tight line.
“Does driving in traffic make you tense?” he asked.
She nodded.
‘I’d think that after living in Paris you’d get used to a big city.”
She snorted. “In Paris, we walked everywhere. When I lived in New Orleans, I stayed in an apartment not too far from where I worked. I didn’t have to drive in the traffic very often. It’s just another reason I like being home in Bayou Mambaloa.”
“Are you nervous about seeing Luis?” Maurice asked.
“No, not really,” Amelie said. “It’s just the first time he’s come to see me since I moved back to the US.” She frowned. “Why now?”
“Is it a little weird that it’s right after your bakery was broken into?”
She shrugged and drove the van into a parking lot near Bourbon Street. “I’m probably chasing shadows. It just seems to be a bit of a coincidence.”
“I never believe in coincidence,” Maurice said.
“Then it’s nothing.” Amelie pulled into a space and turned off the engine. “A lot of people come to New Orleans. He’s no different. It’s an interesting city with lots to offer.”
“What about the fact that your apartment in this city was vandalized as well?”
“That was nearly two years ago. I doubt there’s a connection between then and now.”
“Did they take anything in that first break-in?”
“Just my electronics—a TV and a handheld speaker. I didn’t have much.”
“A typical break-in with the intent to take anything they can sell in a pawn shop.” He shook his head.
“Which doesn’t make sense that your bakery was broken into, but whoever did it didn’t take anything.
He could’ve gone after the cash in the register, or even the cash register, or the television in your apartment. ”
“But he didn’t.” Amelie shifted into park, turned off the engine and turned to Maurice. “You don’t have to come to this meeting with Luis.”
“Do you prefer to go alone?” He tilted his head. “Or are you trying to give me a break?”
“No and yes,” she answered with a crooked smile. “I’m giving you an out.”
“If you’re okay with me tagging along, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Okay. Then, after lunch, we can go pick up all the supplies I’ll need. Shouldn’t take too long since I called in the order to my supplier.”
They left the parking garage and walked to Mambo’s on Bourbon Street, the Cajun-American restaurant Amelie had assured Maurice had a great Cajun menu.
Maurice held the door for Amelie, admiring the scent of her shampoo as she passed by. She’d showered and changed into clean clothing after they’d finished cleaning the bakery and setting her apartment to rights.
Inside the restaurant, Amelie glanced around at the tables filled with the lunch crowd of tourists and locals.
A hand rose from a table in the far corner.
“Ah,” Amelie smiled. “There he is.”
Maurice followed her as she weaved her way through the tables, stopping at the one where a young man with brown hair and brown eyes sat.
As Amelie approached, the man got up.
“Luis,” Amelie smiled and hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been way too long.”
“You’re right. Far too long.” Luis hugged her and stepped back. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Amelie turned to Maurice. “Maurice, this is Luis Beno?t, my mentor and friend, Armand’s son.” She turned to Luis. “Luis, I hope you don’t mind that I brought my friend Maurice. We have to pick up supplies for the bakery after lunch, and he offered to help.”
Luis shook hands with Maurice, demonstrating a strong grip for such a young man. “Pleasure to meet you,” Luis said with very little French accent.
“Nice to meet you,” Maurice said and pulled out a chair for Amelie. “Amelie tells me you two worked together in Paris.”
Luis’s gaze met Amelie’s. “Amelie worked. I’m not sure I was much help in my father’s restaurant.”
“You were a big help.” Amelie settled in her chair.
Once Luis and Maurice took their seats, a waiter appeared to take their drink orders.
Maurice asked for water. Luis ordered a soft drink, and Amelie opted for sweet tea.
“I grew up in Louisiana,” Amelie said. “Sweet tea, Cajun cuisine and my friends were what I missed most when I was in Paris.”
Luis smiled as he lifted the menu. “I remember when you introduced me to sweet tea. It was shortly after I moved in with my father.”
“I didn’t make it too often. I really had to work on my tea palate to even barely appreciate flavored teas. Your father helped me there, along with taste, type and pairings of wine.” She sighed and leaned closer. “How are you, Luis? How are you liking living back in California?”
The waiter returned with the drinks before Luis could respond.
Once he’d set the glasses on the table, he took their orders.
“I’ll have shrimp etouffee,” Amelie said. “My favorite.”
“Excellent choice.” Maurice tilted his head. “I also like a good gumbo. That’s what I’ll have.”
Luis ordered a shrimp po’ boy.
After the waiter left with their orders, Luis drew in a deep breath. “As for California...I thought I’d like to be back where I grew up, but nothing’s the same.”
“It rarely is, going back to your hometown,” Amelie said. “With the exception of Bayou Mambaloa,” she said with a smile. “Most of my friends were still there or had come back. Was that not the case for you?”
Luis shook his head. “Friends I’d known in high school had either moved out of the state to find jobs or were already married with kids on the way.
Though I have my father’s trust payments, they aren’t enough to cover the cost of living.
I got a full-time job at a restaurant.” His lips twisted.
“As a dishwasher, which wasn’t all bad. I’ve done that before, working in my father’s restaurant in Paris.
It was really the only job I could get.”
At this point, Luis paused.
Amelie didn’t prompt or make a comment. She let the young man continue at his own pace.
Maurice appreciated her patience. He could tell Luis was struggling to get it all out.
“It wasn’t enough,” Luis said. “I didn’t tell you this, but a year ago, I enrolled in culinary school.”
Amelie’s eyes rounded. “Oh, Luis. That’s wonderful.” Her brow dipped a moment later. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked away. “You and my father tried hard to get me to learn the craft, and all I did was push back. I didn’t want to do what everyone expected. I wanted to have a choice in what career I pursued.”
“And?” Amelie sat on the edge of her seat, her eyes alight.
Luis sighed. “Yes, there are recipes you have to learn and follow. Yes, there was a lot to learn about meats, cuts, spices, heat and so much more. I also learned there was room for creativity. That making wonderful food was an art, like making music or painting a picture. I finally understood what my father was always trying to tell me.”
“You have to have a passion for the culinary arts…?”
Luis nodded. “Or you’ll never be a chef. You’ll be a cook.”
Amelie nodded, a smile spreading across her face. “Your father would’ve loved to hear you say all that.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry he didn’t live long enough for me to pull my head out and learn this about myself.”
“So, how much longer do you have in culinary school?” Maurice asked.
“I finished the course I was in and applied for an internship here in New Orleans at Maison Belle and got in. I start as an apprentice in a week.”
Amelie clapped her hands. “That’s where I worked before I moved back home to Bayou Mambaloa.”
“I remembered,” Luis said with a smile. Then his brow dipped. “I don’t understand why you left to open a bakery in a small town. You have skills equal to my father's. Seems like a waste of talent.”
Amelie shook her head. “I still use a wide range of my skills as a caterer when needed, but I love the pace in the small town, and I’ve always loved baking. The best part is that I have a great support system with my friends.”
Luis nodded. “That means a lot. I hope I can find that here in New Orleans.”
The waiter returned with their meals.
Maurice inhaled the rich scents of spices.
For the next few minutes, silence descended as they ate.
Luis set his po’boy down and drank some of his soda. “Something strange occurred before I left California.”