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“Hey, Easy!”
The nickname was one of only a few items that had followed him to Houston. The hometown crowd instantly matched Pierre’s laid-back demeanor with the word that appeared on his restaurant’s marquee.
“Glad you’re back, Easy!”
“Welcome home, Pierre!”
Pierre nodded, waved and offered up his megawatt smile to the fans and photographers shouting his name. Designer shades covered deep hazel eyes, hiding the merest hint of a longtime hurt that never quite went away. Eyes continually surveying, searching, slightly saddened... His sister, Lisette, would meet him at the restaurant. She’d be the only family member on hand to celebrate the big occasion. The other woman who was once in his life, the one that for years he’d searched for online and in the faces of every crowd, had been achingly absent during more than a decade of his life experiences and achieved milestones. His mother, Alana. The woman who’d put her fifteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter on a bus bound for Houston, Texas, promised to meet them there in a week, and disappeared.
The two-car caravan, followed by a small but energetic brass band, reached the restaurant. It was a totally renovated and hugely transformed building originally erected in 1879. The word Easy was scrawled across the side and continued upward into the sky in big cursive letters that would light up at night, with the rest of the name, Creole Cuisine, in block letters beneath. That sign and the group of people standing beneath it brought out Pierre’s first genuine smile all morning. Hard to believe that the dream he’d held since becoming a line cook and peeling more shrimp than he thought the ocean could hold had finally come true. And that the people who mattered most, well, almost all of them, were here to cheer him on.
Pierre swung a pair of long, lean legs over the side of the car, slid down and waded through a sea of people to hug Lisette, his mentor, Marc Fisher, his second mom, Miss Pat, his network publicist and his newly-hired manager, who’d flown down from New York. Then he walked over to greet the mayor and other city officials standing near the front entrance, just beyond the red ribbon and large bow stretched and waiting to be cut, a symbolic gesture signaling the official opening of Pierre’s dream.
“This is a happy day for our city,” the mayor said, each word from his booming voice absorbed by the attentive, enamored crowd. “Pierre could have chosen any major city in the country to open his restaurant. We are happy and proud that he has chosen the Big Easy to open Easy Creole Cuisine.”
With elaborate fanfare, the mayor was handed a framed proclamation that he read aloud. For the last line, he turned and spoke to Pierre directly. “By the powers vested in me as mayor of New Orleans, I declare this day to be Pierre ‘Easy’ LeBlanc Day in the city of New Orleans!”
The crowd cheered and began to chant. “Easy! Easy!” And then, “Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Pierre strolled to the microphone and held up his hand to silence the crowd. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Thanks to all of the city officials and other public servants who have come out today to lend me your support. I really appreciate it.”
Some city officials nodded. Others clapped. The mayor bowed as if to say it was his pleasure as Pierre turned to the crowd.
“And you, the beautiful people of New Orleans! I...” His words were drowned out by the cheering crowd. Pierre waited, then motioned awkwardly for them to calm back down. “This is really incredible. Even though some consider me a celebrity because I’m on the Chow Channel and a product spokesperson for Intensity Energy drinks, I’m still pretty much a regular guy, not much for the spotlight. I usually let my food do the talking, if you know what I’m saying.”
Pierre chuckled, a shy, almost self-depreciating sound that came off as especially sexy to the mostly female crowd. They hung on his every word. Smiled when he smiled. Joined him in laughter. If he were the band leader, they were his orchestra. If he were the quarterback, they were his team. Clearly, he had those around him in the palm of his hand. Several people noticed and weren’t surprised. Marc, for instance. His sister, Lisette. Miss Pat. Groupies familiar with his television charisma, who’d helped launch him to superstardom, were even more impressed with his in-person charm. And one woman, a television reporter, seemed prepared to do anything to get the story...and the man.
“I guess the only thing left for me to say is thank you,” Pierre finished, his voice soft and sincere. “The next time you’re hungry, come on over and get something to eat.”
Amid the laughter and applause, Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, a smart, capable young woman working in one of New York’s top-notch firms, stepped forward. “We have time for a few questions.”
Several reporters asked relevant questions, eliciting sometimes serious, sometimes entertaining answers.
“Eating good food has always been one of my favorite pastimes. But working in a restaurant, New Orleans in Houston, was the first time I considered cooking as a career.
“My inspiration? Definitely my mentor, Marc Fisher, the executive chef at New Orleans. A culinary school and drill sergeant rolled into one. He took me under his wing and encouraged, motivated and threatened my ass into being the best possible chef I could be.
“Other than a chef? I grew up wanting to be an athlete, basketball. And a superhero, when I was five.”
The crowd loved listening to Pierre speak from the heart. Clearly, they could have stayed there all day. Just as Cathy walked over to end the questions, a vivacious redhead emerged out of the crowd with microphone in hand.
“Tell me, Pierre,” she drawled with an accent that was part Southern and part seduction. “Is there anything on the menu that is as tasty looking as you?”
“A perfect segue into what’s next,” Cathy glibly countered, as the crowd reacted, letting Pierre off the hook. “Mayor, if you’ll do the honors.”
The mayor cut the ribbon. Shortly afterward, eighty lucky diners and eighteen VIP guests sauntered into Easy to put the redhead’s unanswered question to the test.
* * *
“Oh my God, could she be any more blatant and unprofessional?”
“You act surprised.” Rosalyn “Roz” Arnaud didn’t look away from her computer screen as she answered Ginny, her coworker at NO Beat, a small yet notable New Orleans weekly newspaper.
“Not really. The whole town knows that girl loves men and money.”
“That girl” was Roz’s former colleague and nemesis, a woman named Brooke who’d worked for years at the city’s biggest newspaper. She covered everything from entertainment to sports and considered herself the company’s “it” girl. When Roz landed a job there fresh out of college, quickly impressing the higher-ups with her knack for putting an interesting spin on ordinary stories, Brooke had viewed her as competition and tried to make her life there a living hell.
A year into the madness an article Roz had written caught the eye of a guy starting a weekly publication with a focus on local news. He’d offered her a job as senior writer, and the freedom to cover topics she felt passionate about. Roz quit the more established, popular paper, took a salary cut and attached her star to the start-up. A year and a few awards later, NO Beat had a small but dedicated staff, national recognition, major advertisers and a solid core of dedicated readers. Turned out Brooke did Roz a favor. Working at NO Beat was the best professional decision she could have made.
“Look at him, though,” Ginny said dreamily, chin in hand as she gazed at the television. “That bod, those eyes.”
Roz gave the screen a cursory glance. Pierre stood at the entrance to his new restaurant, looking the way he had the first time she saw him on an energy drink commercial. Six feet plus of raw sexuality, muscles rippling beneath a tight white shirt as he wrestled a steak off a fiery grill, then reached for a bottle of Intense Energy to refresh him. She remembered being annoyed at how good he looked, and that her body had reacted as though she was a love-starved teen. Truth of the matter was she could use a round of horizontal aerobics, but why tempt fate? It had taken almost a year to get over Delano, her last heartbreak. Today she was in a really good space. She had a job that she loved, covering topics that mattered, a restored twentieth century bungalow, and a terrier named Banner who every day welcomed her home more enthusiastically than any lover ever could. The last thing Roz needed was a pretty boy problem. Especially one that would cause a ten-year journalism vet who knew better to make a comment that bordered on harassment, and reduce sensible women like her coworker Ginny to fantastical would-be nymphs.
“Don’t you binge watch him on the Chow Channel?”
Ginny nodded.
“Then why are you acting like you’re seeing him for the first time?”
“This is different. He isn’t at a television studio in New York. He’s here, in our city. Almost close enough for me to touch. Which I would if there was any chance that I could snag a reservation.”
“I read where there’s a huge waiting list, so good luck with that.”
“Yeah, I saw it posted on their website. But there’s got to be a way to not have to wait three months for a table.”
“Probably, if you have the right connections.”
Roz turned back to her computer and the internet research she’d conducted for a month-long series, “Hurricane Katrina Survivors: Where Are They Now?” Solid, serious journalism about a local catastrophe from which even now, more than a dozen years later, the city was still recovering. Amid recent devastating hurricanes like Sandy, Maria and Harvey, Katrina remained the deadliest and costliest one in America’s history.
“Do you think Brooke got one?”
“Of course.”
“If I know her MO, they’ll be dating within the month.”
“At least in her mind. Everyone watching TV knows she wants to taste him.” Roz delivered the line in Brooke’s signature drawl, causing Ginny to break out laughing.
“Can’t say I blame her. He could cook for me anytime. And not just in the kitchen. Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
“Who?”
“Mickey Mouse, Roz. Who do you think?”
Again Roz glanced at the mounted TV screen as a handsome, smiling Pierre accepted a key to the city before walking into his restaurant with a sold-out crowd of hungry-looking patrons in tow.
“He’s very handsome, I’ll give him that. Probably has several girlfriends.”
Ginny’s look turned wistful as she rested her chin in her palm. “I’d love to be one of them.”
“Along with...her?”
“Who?”
Both women turned around as their editor-in-chief entered the room. A visionary with a Mohawk haircut and a penchant for tattoos, Andy O’Connor had relocated to the Big Easy ten years prior, but his East Coast accent wasn’t the only reminder of his New York birthplace. He preferred chowder to gumbo, soft rock to cool jazz, and when cut, his blood ran Yankee blue. Everyone adored him.
“Who?” he asked again, reaching for a chip from Roz’s bag and munching loudly.
Roz gave him a look. “Help yourself.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” It was said with a wink as he grabbed a handful.
“We’re talking about Brooke Evans making an unprofessional public pass at Pierre LeBlanc,” Ginny said. “I think he should be a feature next week.”
“Should have been this week,” Andy replied. “Next week the restaurant opening will be old news.”
“True, but he won’t.”
“Can’t argue with that, Gin.” Andy swiveled a chair around and straddled it, facing its back. “What would be your angle?”
She shrugged. “The restaurant. His menu. How it feels to be a celebrity chef.”
Andy turned to Roz. “What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“What kinds of questions would you ask the city’s hometown golden boy?”
“So he’s from New Orleans, or just lived here before?”
“Born here,” Ginny said confidently. “I checked.”
“I’m sure you’ve Googled him from here to heaven,” Andy said to Ginny with a laugh.
“Absolutely. There’s a ton of stuff online about his professional life. But very little personal information.”
Roz picked up a pen and idly tapped it against the desk. “Since he’s from here, I’d ask why he moved to Houston to learn about New Orleans cuisine. And since I’m preparing the series for next month’s anniversary, I’d ask him about Katrina. How it affected him and his family. If that was the reason he moved to Houston. How does the New Orleans he returned to compare to the town he left? There’ll be enough stories on his culinary prowess and celebrity stats. My focus would be on the man behind the food.”
“That’s an excellent angle,” Andy said as he rose from the chair. “One I expect you to cover in the first series piece.”
Ginny’s jaw dropped. Roz’s, too.
“Wait! Doing a story on him was my idea.”
“It was Ginny’s idea,” Roz parroted. “She should do the story. She’s already done research. Religiously watched his TV show. Aside from him being a chef and spokesperson for the energy drink, I know nothing about the guy and could care even less.”
“Which is why you’re the perfect one to cover him. No bias. Besides, I’ve got something else for you, Gin.”
“What?” Ginny unashamedly crossed her arms and pouted as though she were two.
“Football.”
“The Saints?”
Andy nodded. “Preseason coverage. I’ve got tickets to the home games, but—”
“Who dat! What? I’m all in.”
“I thought you might be. You’re the only person I know who likes football more than food.”
“Wait a minute. I like football, too.” Roz looked at Ginny. “Sure you don’t want to switch?”
“Positive,” she replied, her voice filled with pure glee. “Pierre’s hot, but he’s not the breeze.”
“So...everybody’s happy?” Andy smiled as he eyed Roz’s not-so-happy frown on his way out of the room. “Everybody in the country is loving LeBlanc right now,” he told her. “Write something great.”
Chapter 2 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
Roz wasn’t pleased with her assignment, but after sending inquiries for information and an interview to Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, she spent the next couple weeks on the July articles that had been approved. Crime had increased with the heat index. City Hall was in the middle of another political scandal.
On a lighter note, the whole city united behind eight-year-old child prodigy Zach Johnson, whose keyboard mastery made him America’s New Star on the hit TV talent show, with a first prize of a recording contract and half a million dollars. The youngest of seven being raised by a single mother, who’d taken in four more children after her sister died, he and his life-changing win were front page news on NO Beat and some national papers, too. Roz met with the entire family for an interview and photo shoot. They were a joy. The kind of people she loved to meet, and the type of story she lived to write.
As August neared Roz switched her focus to the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the four-part “Where Are They Now?” series to mark the event. Wanting to start on a high note, she hoped LeBlanc’s story would fit the topic, was almost certain she could spin it so that it would. Actually got a little excited about meeting the chef. For business purposes only, she always reminded herself, when at the thought of an “up close and personal” her heart did a little step-ball-chage.
But after spending almost the entire month of July trying to contact him for an interview, she found herself stymied. Andy was totally unsympathetic, responding to her woes of the elusive celebrity with “get the story.” She scoured the internet for info, then called the restaurant, emailed his publicist, and finally texted a food critic with stellar connections, all several times, to no avail. The restaurant had flat out said he was too busy to be interviewed for at least three months. Cathy had sent a standard press packet and promised to get back to her with answers to the more personalized questions Roz had sent. So far, though? Nothing. The food critic hadn’t even bothered to respond. Roz didn’t blame him. He was a former associate, an acquaintance. Not a friend. Probably thought that she was like every other single woman in New Orleans angling for entry into the chef’s private kitchen. Or his bedroom. And not necessarily in that order.
She was frustrated, so after securing the subjects for August’s week two and three, and leaving a message for the best friend whose family’s story would close out the series, Roz headed over to the other office, where she did her best thinking. Guido’s was a bare-bones boxing and workout center that relied on old-school iron rather than modern-day machines to achieve one’s desired physique. Roz had discovered it a year ago, when a nasty breakup left her needing something to punch. Hard. Repeatedly. Ginny had suggested the place where her boyfriend sparred thrice weekly with an aggressive punching bag that bobbed and wove but never hit back. Perfect. Roz pounded, weight lifted and squatted out her anger. In the process, she got into the best shape of her life.
“Rozzo!”
“Hey, Gee.”
Everyone called the owner of Guido’s Gee, pronounced Ghee, short for Guido, even though he was neither vain, uncouth nor Italian. His real name was Gerald, but friends in his high school wrestling circle had dubbed him Guido and the name stuck. Roz surmised that he probably liked “Guido’s Gym” better than “Gerald’s Gym,” anyway.
She stopped at a short counter that served as the modest reception area, where Gee stood frowning at a laptop computer. “What’s happening?”
“Trying to figure out this lousy piece of equipment, that’s what. That new cook in town heard about my gym and wants to work out here, but his team wanted more info on the place. I’m trying to send it.”
“What about your website?”
Gee clicked on it, a basic one-page collection of a few pics, a couple links and not much else.
“You want help?” Roz eased her gym bag off her shoulder and walked around to Gee’s side of the counter. He turned the laptop toward her. “Can’t believe a pretty boy like him wants to work out in a place like this.”
“I think that was supposed to be a compliment so...thanks.”
Roz laughed. “It was totally a compliment.”
“So you think he’s a pretty boy, huh?”
