Kara Lennox - A Second Chance

Luc could see the wheels turning in Charlotte’s head. A keen businesswoman, she wasn’t one to let an opportunity for good public relations slip away.

“If Melanie does agree to help-and that’s up to her, of course-could the Hotel Marchand be listed as a sponsor?”

“I know we could arrange something. I can’t make promises because I’m not in charge, but I’ll bet Marjo-she’s the organizer-would be willing to work with you.”

“I’ll see if Melanie has a few minutes.”

Melanie offered ten minutes, and Luc didn’t waste a second of it. Crowded into her office with Charlotte, Melanie and Melanie’s husband, Robert LeSoeur, the head chef, he outlined how the VIP dinner had been promoted.

“I take it there are no cooking facilities on the premises?” Melanie asked. She hadn’t smiled once.

“No. You would have to prepare everything elsewhere and transport it. Loretta has a kitchen and a first-class wood-burning oven you can use, and my kitchen is at your disposal, though it’s very small.”

Robert, who’d sat mute, arms folded, finally spoke up. “You’ve got your nerve, coming here and asking for favors.”

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.”