Startled, Melanie placed a calming hand on Robert’s arm.
“It’s the nerviest thing I’ve ever done,” Luc agreed. “None of you owes me the time of day, and I would never have come here if Loretta wasn’t in such a spot.”
“Who is this Loretta?” Charlotte asked.
He could have expounded for days on who Loretta was-a feisty single mom, as passionate about baking bread as some people were about a lover. A devoted daughter, helping her parents market their honey products. A good friend, one of many who’d accepted him as an equal in Indigo. Gorgeous, bursting with energy and enthusiasm and ideas, never slowing down.
But his ten minutes were almost up.
“She owns a bakery. She’s fantastic. You’ll really like her.”
“Luc says he might be able to swing a sponsorship for the hotel,” Charlotte added.
“You’re in favor of this?” Melanie asked her older sister.
“I’m in favor of anything that promotes the hotel. And…well, Luc is family.”
“Yeah, the black sheep,” Robert grumbled.
“Don’t do it for me,” Luc said. “Do it for a little town that’s trying to survive. Do it to preserve your Cajun heritage. Remember, the more tourism in Indigo, the more people who stay at La Petite Maison, which is your family’s legacy.”
He’d played his last card. Now it was up to this impromptu tribunal to decide his fate.
LORETTA HEARD the school bus coming up the road and hurried to wrap up three loaves of cranberry bread and slap on “Indigo Bakery” stickers. When school started, she got the brilliant idea to offer free bread samples to the kids and the driver, Della Roy. Soon she’d had orders pouring in from the kids’ parents-many from neighboring towns who might not otherwise have thought to try her baked goods. Today’s was just a small order, but every little bit helped.
She ran outside just as the bus pulled to a stop and Zara hopped off, though not with the usual spring in her step. Loretta handed the small bag of breads to Della. “Kane, Schubert and Cauberraux. And the shortbread cookies are for you.” Della was a cookie fanatic, so Loretta baked her a few in return for delivering bread orders along with the kids. She seemed to enjoy the break in her routine.
“Thanks.” Della beamed. “If you get any more business, I’m gonna be big as a house. See you tomorrow.” She pulled away, leaving Zara standing forlornly by the side of the road.
It was then that Loretta noticed the bruise on Zara’s cheek, and the fact her little yellow T-shirt had a torn sleeve.
“Zara, what on earth happened to you?” Loretta smoothed back her daughter’s red hair, inspecting the bruise and checking for other injuries. “Are you okay?”
“Long story.”
“Well, I’d like to hear it, please.”
Zara headed toward the bakery, which had been built onto the front of Loretta’s small frame house. The space was just large enough to accommodate a glass-front case along one wall, a commercial fridge, a marble-topped work space, and the brick oven, which dominated. There was also a sturdy oak table and four ladder-back chairs, for those times when a customer wanted to sit down with their bakery treat and consume it on the spot. An old- fashioned cash register handled the money.
Right now, though, the shop was deserted. Zara dropped her backpack on the floor with a clunk and plopped into one of the chairs.
“May I have a snack, please?”
“Of course you may.” Baked goods held little appeal for Zara, since she lived and breathed them all the time. Loretta opened the fridge and pulled out a small plate with a sliced apple, some cheese and one small cookie. She poured a glass of milk and brought it to Zara, who solemnly handed Loretta a wrinkled note.
Loretta sighed. The note was from Patti Brainard, Zara’s third-grade teacher.
Zara has been fighting again. Please call me. And don’t worry, we’ll work it all out.
Patti was a doll and Zara adored her, but Loretta was hardly reassured. Her nine-year-old daughter was getting the reputation of a thug.
“So what happened?” Loretta asked, trying not to sound accusatory.
“Thomas called me a cheater and said I was a criminal just like my daddy and I was gonna go to jail someday.”
“Why did he call you a cheater?”
“Because I won his best Harry Potter card.”
“Did you win it fair and square?”
“Well, I might have lost count on how many points I won on my last turn. But it was an honest mistake.”
“Zara Castille, what have I told you about cheating at cards?”
“I wasn’t cheating. If he’d been paying better attention-”
“Never mind that. What did you do when Thomas called you a cheater?”
“I hit him with my notebook, not even very hard. And he, like, attacked me.”
Loretta groaned. Her beautiful, intelligent, talented daughter was a budding juvenile delinquent.
“Before you say anything, I know I shouldn’t take advantage of Thomas just because he’s stupid and doesn’t keep count, and I know I shouldn’t hit first no matter how mad somebody makes me. But I barely tapped him.”
Loretta pulled a chair close to her daughter and sat down, again smoothing Zara’s bright red hair from her face. “Oh, honey, it’s not how hard you hit him that’s important. You’ve got to learn to control your temper. The older you get, the harder it is to change your habits.”
“Thomas shouldn’t have made fun of my daddy.”
“No, that wasn’t nice of him. But you’re going to have to deal with not-nice people your whole life.”
“I just wish-” Zara stopped herself and crammed an apple slice into her mouth. Her eyes were shiny with tears.
“What do you wish, sweet angel?”
“I wish everybody didn’t know that my daddy died in prison. I wish I had a normal family.”
“I wish you did, too.”
“How come you don’t get married again?”
“Because there’s no one around here I want to marry.”
“Then why don’t we move?”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’d be so sad if we moved away. Your grandparents are here, and who would teach you fiddle if we moved away from Mr. Boudreaux? And even if I ever did marry again, that wouldn’t erase history.”
Zara sighed. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to be bad. I’ll count to ten next time, I promise.”
“And you must not take advantage of little boys who aren’t as smart as you. If I hear any more stories about that, I’m taking all your Harry Potter cards away.”
“Mrs. Brainard already did that. She said she’d give ’em back next week.”
The front door opened, and Loretta gave Zara a quick hug and a kiss before turning to greet her customer.
It was Luc, in faded jeans and a T-shirt advertising the music festival. He’d been one of the first in line to buy one, she recalled, and was selling them at the B and B. He was still tanned from putting on a new roof this past summer, his shaggy blond hair streaked with pale gold from the sun.
“Luc!” Zara jumped out of her chair, almost upsetting her milk, then halted as if she weren’t quite sure what she wanted to do. Zara’s reaction to Luc had been strange almost from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. At first, Loretta figured it was the fact he was blond. There weren’t many fair-haired men in these parts. Zara had stared endlessly at him, despite Loretta’s asking her not to because it was rude. But then she’d started talking like a magpie to him every chance she got. The only other adults Zara was that open with were her grandparents, and even they lavished so much loving attention on her that they embarrassed her into silence sometimes.
“Hi, gorgeous. Hey, what happened to you? You look like you just got out of the ring after doing a couple of rounds with George Foreman.”
“His name wasn’t George, it was Thomas,” Zara corrected him. Loretta’s advice not to correct adults hadn’t sunk in with her daughter.
“You mean you really were in a fight?” Luc sounded impressed. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”
“Luc, don’t encourage her,” Loretta protested.
