She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance (10 page)

A family business meant nothing without family.  The Richmonds were too insular.  It was time to expand. 

The first goal was to find out more about Lou’s father and his corporate affairs.  Only one thing would end Lou’s self-imposed limbo – discovering or disproving the so-called treasure that was allegedly hidden by Robert Aucoin.  And Kip knew just the man to recruit.

Leaning against the wall, Kip pulled out his phone and turned on the ringer.  He tapped Messages and selected the thread from his mother.  Nineteen separate texts.  Fewer than he expected.  She must be in a meeting.  Reluctantly Kip read the last one first.

You are to stay away from that girl!

Instantly he knew better than to read the other eighteen.  His mother tended to text herself into a frenzy whenever he didn’t reply.  If Kip read them all, he’d grow just as heated as she was.

Sliding left, he hit Delete.  Then he started a new message to Ben.

When are you free to talk?

A
fter turning off Meer Street into the court passageway, Lou set down her grocery bags and checked the time on her phone.  7:18 a.m.  Even though the café didn’t open until 9, she was still cutting it close.

When Lou reached the side entrance, she knocked twice with her foot, and the door swung open with unusual force.  The face smiling down wasn’t one she expected.  Jumping back, Lou almost dropped the bags.

“
Saloperie
, Kip!  What are you doing here?”

He took the groceries from her hands.  “Moggie and Beryl hired me on for the day.  It’s a trial period only, but I am hoping to impress.”  Stepping inside, he turned left – toward the kitchen where customers weren’t allowed.

As she caught the door before it shut, Lou remained stuck in place.  She’d been looking forward to a Kip-Richmond-free day where she could collect her thoughts and sift through her feelings.  Being around him scrambled her signals.  Cooking always cleared her head.

Calling his name, Lou scanned the café’s interior from the doorway.  Her Benedict Arnolds were nowhere in sight.  Fine.  She could nip this in the bud without any help.

“You can’t stay,” she told Kip when he reappeared.  He wore blue jeans, a faded green t-shirt, and a white server’s apron around his waist.  Brown hiking boots made him even taller.

“Why not?  Because you hate me?”

“Because…”

Because your mama paid me to stay away from you
.  The words almost gushed out like floodwaters past a levy.  She was weary of keeping that secret from a man who claimed to never tell a lie, but as she stared into Kip’s baby blues, Lou chickened out.

“Because I have to work today,” she said.  “I need to focus.  I can’t do that with you around.”

Kip slipped outside and let the door ease shut behind him.  “What if I pledge to stay out of your way?”

Crossing her arms, Lou braced herself against the wall.  “Then why be here in the first place?”

He stepped close enough for his body to brush hers.  “Maybe I’m looking to change careers.”

Lou inhaled his woodsy scent.  “Aren’t you a little overqualified?”

“Beryl thinks the opposite.”  Grinning, Kip cupped her check in his hand. “Please, Lou?  Let me stay?”

Before she knew it, her lips were pressed to his.  Kip’s arm looped itself around her, pulling her nearer, and Lou kissed him like it was still Saturday night, when they were tipsy and swimming in starlight. 

As Kip ended their kiss, his mouth drifted to Lou’s ear.  “Please?”

Lou felt herself swaying.  Her legs buckled like they’d become putty.  Tongues were also made for talking, but she couldn’t find the words.

“You can stay,” she eventually mumbled.  “But you can’t be
canaille
.  Not today.”

He leaned away just enough for their gazes to meet. 
“
Kah-nahy
?”

“Silly.  Mischievous.  Up to no good.  I’ll make you kneel on the rice,
mon cher
, if you dare to misbehave.”

“Aye aye, captain.  Or is it ‘chef’ today?”

“I’ll answer to either one.”

With exaggerated formality Kip opened the side door and bowed.  “After you, chef.”

As they walked back inside, Moggie looked up from the glass dessert case where she wrapped silverware in paper serviettes.  “Everything sorted?”

“He can stay,” Lou announced.  “As long as he tows the line.”

“Best behavior,” Kip said behind her.  “
Je fais serment
.”

Lou shook her head at his continental French. 
Mais
the boy sounded proud.  She lifted her apron from its peg on the wall and tied it over her clothes.  Nothing she owned was really worth protecting, but new clothes – even when they were someone else’s old ones – cost money she didn’t need to spend.  Removing her Mardi Gras bandana from the apron’s massive pocket, Lou secured it around her hair.

Kip helped her unpack the groceries.  “So what are we serving?”

Lou piled everything onto the wooden worktable that consumed the kitchen’s middle.  “Beryl takes care of the regular breakfast orders, and I’ll cook the special – Pain Perdu d’Lou.  It’s baked French toast, Cajun style, with oven-fried potatoes.  There’s bourbon in the syrup, but don’t tell the teetotalers.”

Chuckling, he promised not to.  “And for lunch?”

“Shrimp étouffée, corn maque choux, and Maw-Maw’s potato salad.”

“You’re going to make all those dishes, whatever they are, by lunchtime?”

As Lou squeezed past Kip to turn on the ovens, she trailed her hand across his back.  “The potato salad is already built, and I chopped the trinity yesterday.”

With one stride Kip was behind her.  “The who?”

“The holy trinity of Cajun cooking.  Onion, celery, and bell pepper. I finished all the dicing at home.”  Pivoting where she stood, Lou reached around him to grab a plastic bag of chopped veggies.  Their fronts touched as she lunged for it.  Titling back, she displayed it as proof.  “I tossed in a
’ti
of garlic, too, but you Brits have porridge palates so I have to mind the spice.”

Kip’s hands captured her waist.  “Aren’t you half British?”

“I got the spicy half.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”  He kissed her forehead, then her cheek.

“Health and Safety!”  Beryl’s warbling voice filled the kitchen as she entered.  “That isn’t the sort of cooking they approve.”

“Sorry.”  Kip looked anything but apologetic as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Wishing them both a good morning, Beryl plucked her apron – sewn entirely from worn-out dish towels – off its peg.  Her hair was braided and coiled into a pair of chignons that resembled cinnamon rolls.  She examined Kip like her jury hadn’t reached a verdict.

“Fancy a quick tour of the kitchen?” she asked.

As Beryl led Kip around the already-cramped space, Lou focused on her first task.  The café opened at 9 a.m. sharp which meant the first breakfast orders would need to be plated by 9:15.  While rearranging ingredients, Lou calculated the number of minutes she had left and divided them into prepping and baking.  The toast and potatoes required perfect timing or both would be overcooked.  The étouffée was a one-pot job that could wait until ten o’clock.

“Fry station,” she heard Beryl saying.  “Grill station.  Ovens.  And this counter is expressly for Lou and me to use.  When you write the tickets, be sure to include any special requests directly beneath the item.  All allergies must be noted.”

Lou glanced up to see Kip nodding compliantly.  His expression contained an intensity she hadn’t seen before.  Already she’d learned his Lydia face and his “May-we-kiss-please?” face and the face that meant he was dreading rejection.  This one was different – less playful and more detached, like he memorized every word Beryl said.  His Cambridge face?  Probably so.

When each ingredient was
mise en place
, Lou wedged her way toward the refrigerator.  Like the ovens and dishwasher, it was industrial-grade and large enough for her to climb inside.  Moggie and Beryl had paid a small fortune for the fridge, but they called it an investment and skipped their vacation that winter.

Instead, they’d spent every Monday of that mild December taking day trips with Lou on the Evangeline.  Sometimes they moored by canalside homes and sang carols from the aft deck.  Lou decorated her narrowboat just like anyone else might a house, with lights and a tree and a glowing manger scene tacked to the roof.  She loved that holiday season more than any other.

Her thoughts flickered ahead to next Christmas.  Would it just be the three of them again?  Or would Kip be there also, strolling beside her through the festive Stratford streets with cups of hot mulled wine warming their hands?

Lou was swamped by a wave of dismay.  The guilt she’d been ignoring churned in her conscience, submerging her buoyant daydreams.  If she didn’t tell Kip the truth – and soon – then her deal with his mama might kill any chance of a happily ever after.

One by one she pinned the day’s recipes to a strip of cork above the plating counter.  While her maw-maw had known them all by heart, Lou wouldn’t risk making a single mistake.  Family forgave most anything when they sat down to dinner.  Paying customers had higher expectations, and they deserved a good meal for their money.

Kip also deserved to know the whole story, even if it made things bumpy between them.  Vowing to tell him before the end of the day, Lou tuned back in to Beryl’s tour.

“We plate next to the ovens and set what’s ready on the pass-through.  Lou and I will prep table by table, so you’ll rarely have multiple orders to sort.  Still, best to pay attention when you’re fetching the plates.  Check every ticket before you deliver.”

Peering over her shoulder, Lou pointed a loaf of French bread at a silver call bell on the pass-through’s ledge.  “And if you hear that ding, it means you’re moving too slow.”

“Yes, chef.”

“Careful,” Beryl warned him.  “Or she’ll think we’re all supposed to call her that.”

“Actually I like ‘captain’ better.  My
nonc
was a tugboat captain.”  Lou gave her best impression of her Uncle Jacques.  “Ahm takin mah
bâteau
down d’ bayou, me.  De
sac-á-lait
,
mais
– dem fish es bitin’
ce matin
.”

Kip appeared baffled.  “Was that English or French?”

“Bit of both, just like me.”

“Oh dear,” Beryl sighed.  “It will only get worse.  Once she starts playing the music, it becomes a folderol back here.”

“She means a
fais do do
,” Lou corrected.  “That’s a Cajun dance party.  How I wish!”

Kip looked intrigued.  “You like that sort of thing?”

“I love that sort of thing!” she crowed.  “
Fais do dos
.  Crawfish boils.  Festivals.  Parades.  Renting an apartment in the French Quarter for Mardi Gras is on my bucket list.  Can you imagine watching the Fat Tuesday parade from a Bourbon Street balcony?”

His expression told Lou that he could.  For Kip Richmond, it wasn’t a bucket-list dream.  He might make the reservations tomorrow.  No budgets.  No constraints.  No limits of any kind.

Beryl detached a sheet of paper from a corkboard by the curtain.  “Right now I’m imagining the customer’s faces when we open in an hour.  How’s your handwriting, Kip?”

“Mostly legible.”

“Take this.”  Beryl passed him the paper.  “It’s today’s specials.  Write them on the chalkboard next to the pass-through.  Make sure all the accents are in their proper spots.  Otherwise Lou will become quite cross.”

“You’ve got descriptions,” Kip said as he scanned it.  “Thank heavens.  I have no clue what most of these are.”

“The regulars will,” Beryl assured him.  “The tourists order fish and chips.”

“Is there a tasting before we serve?” he asked.

Lou winked at him over her shoulder.  “Don’t worry,
cher
.  I’ll take care of you.”

The kiss-me-please face reappeared.  “Likewise.”

“Off you pop!” Beryl waggled a finger at Kip.  “Moggie will tell you what else she needs done in front.”

When the pain perdu was in the oven, and the bourbon-laced syrup warmed on the stove, Lou wiped a sleeve across her forehead.  Much as she loved England in the summer, she hated the lack of air conditioning.  While the front of the house had decent A/C, the kitchen wasn’t worth the expense.  Beryl had already opened the windows, but it made little difference unless they propped the front door, too.  Soon as it was 9 a.m., Moggie would. 

In the lull Lou sashayed toward the CD player and exchanged Enya for her homemade Cajun mix.  Beryl didn’t really need her to cook the specials on Tuesdays.  They both pretended it was a favor, but Lou knew it was a gift – and not for Beryl.

Once a week Lou could immerse herself in a world she hadn’t known for years.  Bayou flavors.  Family recipes.  Her best memories of St. Charles Parish.  Visits to New Orleans with Amy and her parents.  Plus the SoLa music that made her dance even when life was at its worst.  Connick, Marsalis, Mahalia.  BeauSoleil and Tab Benoit.

As Lou began prepping the potatoes, Beryl assembled the ingredients for a full English breakfast.  At first Lou had worried she’d get in the way, but Beryl moved through the kitchen, and the day’s routine, as easily as she breathed.  After twenty years, the back of the house was an extension of Beryl herself.  At least once a week Lou caught her chatting with the pots and pans.

When Kip’s ringing laugh, one that changed his voice from bass to tenor, spilled from the front, Lou shifted to see what was so funny.  No one would call Moggie a comedian, but something had tickled Kip.  Whatever it was, Lou hoped it would happen again.  Unless…

She froze over the bowl of diced potatoes coated in olive oil.  Was Moggie telling stories on her?  That could go south real fast.

“You know what I call this?” Beryl halved a cherry tomato.  “A recipe for disaster.”