Kara Lennox - A Second Chance

Book 11 in the Hotel Marchand series, 2007

Hi, Charlotte,

Thanks for your last e-mail updating me about the family. It’s been so hectic here lately, I haven’t had time to write, but I’m not complaining. The B and B’s still full most of the time, and if that’s not enough to keep me busy, the upcoming Cajun musical festival is. Local businesses are planning to have display booths on the opera house grounds, so I’ll be doing something to promote La Petite Maison.

You’d be surprised at the caliber of Indigo’s few businesses. There’s a woman here named Loretta Castille who’s started up a bakery specializing in artisanal breads. She’s been supplying La Petite Maison with all our baked goods, and they rival anything you can find in New Orleans-everything from cranberry-walnut muffins to olive bread. Loretta’s great. She’s a single mom with a really precocious daughter, Zara. I’ll miss them both once my probation’s up and I move on. Until then, I’ll keep putting all my energy into La Petite Maison so Grand-mère Celeste and the rest of you will believe that I really have turned my life around. I’ll never get so much as a parking ticket for the rest of my life.

Love to you all,

Luc

Dear Reader,

When Hurricane Katrina hit, like everyone else, I felt just awful. Not only did hundreds of people lose their lives and thousands more their homes, but one of my favorite cities was changed irrevocably. Since I’m a Texan, Louisiana is my close neighbor, and I’ve been there more than a dozen times-trips with my parents when I was a little girl, wild weekends when I was in college, writers conferences and camping trips as an adult. My husband proposed to me in New Orleans.

But it’s not just New Orleans. The Louisiana swamps hold a strange appeal for me-all that Spanish moss, funky Cajun cafés and little shacks deep in the woods, and plantation homes. A few years ago, I bicycled across southern Louisiana and saw the state from a whole new perspective.

I want to hold tight to my memories and think of Louisiana and New Orleans as I knew it-which is how I depicted the area in this book. When I make mention of the hurricane damage, I emphasize the resilient spirit of Louisianans, and the rebuilding. I hope that by the time you read this book, my predictions are reality.

Sincerely,

Kara Lennox

T HE SUN WASN’T UP YET ,but Luc Carter had been out of bed for an hour. His bed-and-breakfast guests, a bird-watching couple from Washington, D.C., were planning an early-morning trip up the Bayou Teche to try to spot an ivory-billed woodpecker, and Luc had promised them a full-course breakfast at 7:00 a.m.

He didn’t mind getting up early. He liked the quiet hours before his guests were awake-before anyone in the whole town of Indigo, Louisiana, was awake, except maybe for Loretta.

Loretta. He had to stop thinking about her. But how could he stop thinking about her when he saw her almost every morning? Loretta Castille baked the most delicious breads and muffins in all of Louisiana, and she brought them fresh each day to La Petite Maison B and B. Some guests claimed the breads were what brought them back to Indigo again and again.

He checked the frittata in the oven, then returned to squeezing oranges for fresh juice. Coffee with chicory perked on the stove, sending a delectable scent throughout the two-hundred-year-old Creole cottage he’d spent the last year restoring with his own hands.

As he mixed fresh strawberries and walnuts into a bowl of yogurt, he kept his eye on the front window.

Loretta would be arriving any minute with her bountiful basket. How sad that the high point of his day usually occurred before breakfast.

As the sky began to glow pink, then orange, the familiar chug-chug of Loretta’s old Volvo station wagon carried through the screen door.

On time, as usual. She was never late for a delivery. Loretta worked day and night to make a go of her baking business. It was hard to maintain any business in a small town like Indigo, but people managed.

Luc passed through the screen door and went out to the porch to greet Loretta. She was always in a hurry, with a long list of customers from St. Martinville to New Iberia awaiting her breads, and she appreciated not having to hunt him down.

The station wagon pulled to a stop, and before Loretta could even cut the engine, the passenger door opened and a red-headed, four-foot bundle of energy burst out of the car and straight for him. The child-Loretta’s nine-year-old daughter, Zara-looked as if she were going to run straight into him. But she skidded to a stop a few feet shy of Luc, as if she’d suddenly remembered that she wasn’t the type of child to go around hugging people.

And she wasn’t.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself, gorgeous.” She was beautiful, with a mischievous, pixie face, thick, wavy red hair and warm hazel eyes that would break a lot of hearts one day. She looked heart-stoppingly like her mother. “You’re up awful early for a Saturday morning.”

“I wanted to see the bird-watchers. Mama says you have bird-watchers all the way from Washington staying with you.”

Zara was the most curious child Luc had ever encountered. Not that he’d known many children, other than his little cousin, Rosie, in New Orleans.

“The bird-watchers aren’t up yet,” Luc told Zara. “But you’re not missing much. They look just like ordinary people, I promise.” Luc watched Loretta emerge from her car with a cheery wave. She looked fantastic, as always, in a pair of tight, faded jeans and a gauzy blue shirt, her spiky red hair sticking out every which way, as if she hadn’t combed it since rolling out of bed.

He liked that look, though he didn’t care to speculate on why. Dangerous territory, thinking about Loretta and bed.

“Is anyone else staying with you?” Zara asked, peeking past him to the doorway, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of some exotic guest.

“Uh-huh. Two more couples, one from Shreveport and one from Houston.”

“Are they interesting?”

“The couple from Shreveport are pretty fun. Newlyweds.” Luc lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But the ones from Houston-snooty. Nothing’s good enough for them. I had to get them a different kind of soap, and a different kind of toilet paper.”

Zara giggled, which was the result Luc had intended. She was a smart little girl, sometimes scarily so. But she was way too serious for a nine-year-old. Anything she took an interest in, she pursued with the dogged determination of someone much older. She’d taken up Cajun fiddle-playing at age six, and in only three years had become proficient enough that she was going to perform at the upcoming music festival.

Loretta joined them, her arms filled with a giant basket. Luc took it from her, leaning close enough to get a whiff of her shampoo. She smelled like lavender and honey and fresh-baked bread. The combination of scents made Luc’s skin tingle.

“My dad sent you some new honey samples,” Loretta said, clearly oblivious to her effect on him. “Red currant-and cranberry-flavored. Those are his newest inspirations.”

“I’ll let you know how the guests like them.”

She flashed him a shy smile. “I gave you some extra orange muffins, too, since I know you like them.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me, Ms. Castille.”