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He’d barely sat down before picking up his fork to spear a chunk of sausage swimming in the bowl of beans and rice. He placed the nugget in his mouth and closed his eyes as he began to chew.
“The usual suspects,” he began, still chewing. “Thyme, paprika, bay leaf, sage...” Swallowing, he turned admiring eyes toward Ma. “But what’s that sweet undertone? Nutmeg? Ginger?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to never find out. Knowing that here is the only place you can get it will keep you coming back.”
“No doubt, I’ll be back.” Pierre tested the jambalaya. “Ma, this is divine. I need to spend some time in your kitchen.”
“I guess I could use a dishwasher from time to time.” She winked at Roz while Pierre laughed, and walked back into the kitchen, a smile clearly showing that his compliments were appreciated.
For the next few minutes, the deliciousness of Ma’s food dominated the conversation. But midway through the jambalaya, Roz repeated her earlier question to Pierre.
“You were telling me about your experience during Hurricane Katrina. What was that like?”
“You first. Where were you when it hit?”
“Out of state, Columbia, Missouri, preparing to enter my first year at Mizzou.” At Pierre’s raised brows she added, “University of Missouri.”
“Why didn’t you attend college here?”
“I wanted to. My mom wanted me to go to Southern, or Tulane. But my dad is a Midwesterner and felt that spending time outside my home state would broaden my cultural horizons. Plus, the University of Missouri has one of the best journalism programs in the country. So it wasn’t a long argument. Dad won.
“Watching that storm on TV, and the events that unfolded afterward, was surreal. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the videos I saw and the town I knew. I wanted to come back and cover it, write an article for the school paper. Of course, my parents forbade it. Too dangerous. I was livid, sure I could cover the events in a way foreigners couldn’t. Foreigners being anyone not from New Orleans.
“Looking back, I know they were right. I may have been ready to write a story, but I wouldn’t have been ready to see in person the aftermath we all witnessed on TV, or handle the emotional and psychological aftereffects.”
Having dealt with those aftereffects for more than a decade, Pierre understood.
Both became quiet—somber, reflective, remembering a moment in history that few who witnessed it could ever forget. Pierre wanted to, wished he could, and continued to steer the focus away from those painful memories.
“They made it out, your family?”
“Yes,” Roz answered. “Our home wasn’t in the major flood area, but my parents didn’t want to take any chances. One of my uncles lives in Atlanta. They left before the storm hit. What about you? Where were you when it happened?”
“A few blocks over.”
“From where we are now?”
He nodded.
“In one of the areas hardest hit. That had to have been a painfully frightening experience.”
“It was.”
“Did you have to be rescued?”
“Almost. We were able to get on one of the buses headed to Houston where...we have family.”
“So your whole family was displaced. Mom, dad...”
“My sister and I.”
“And your parents stayed here?”
“My mother raised us. She stayed behind to help my grandmother. It was a traumatizing experience that’s hard to talk about. I survived it by focusing on what was ahead of me, not by looking back.”
“Yet while living in Houston you ended up at a restaurant called New Orleans.”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“How did it happen, you working at a restaurant that bears your hometown’s name?”
Pierre shrugged. “Needed money.”
“McDonald’s wasn’t hiring?”
“I’ll admit that the name of the place drew me in. I missed the food we’re known for and wondered if the place lived up to it name. Of course, I couldn’t afford to order a meal. So I asked for a job instead.”
“Ingenuity in action.”
“More like desperation, but whatever, it worked.”
“They hired you as...”
Pierre smiled and looked toward the kitchen. “A dishwasher. And to my great surprise the food was delicious, just like back home. I was there for about a month, glad to be eating good and earning a steady paycheck, when one of the prep cooks quit unexpectedly and I volunteered to take over. The work was tedious, but the kitchen atmosphere—infectious. The workers loved and often fought like family. But during service all hostilities were dropped for the sake of synchronicity. That’s when I discovered the mechanical and scientific aspects of cooking, the work that went into each perfect plate. Marc orchestrated each player’s movements like a conductor leading an orchestra. Everyone’s role was important, from dishwasher to head chef. Don’t get me wrong. The work is hard, the hours long. And if you’re running the kitchen, it can consume your life. But I found it fascinating, began staying late and coming in early, learning how the kitchen ran, how things got done. Marc noticed my interest and took me under his wing. My culinary journey continued from there.”
“Your ability to adapt is impressive, especially after such a horrific experience. And you were how old? Nineteen, twenty?”
Pierre looked sheepish as he answered, “Fifteen.”
“Didn’t that go against child labor laws?”
“It may have, had they known it. But I could easily pass for seventeen at that point and that is what I put on the application.”
“Did your boss ever find out?”
“When he took me in and I had to change high schools, I also had to come clean about my real age.”
“So you went to live with your mentor? Why?”
“Wasn’t working out where I was.”
“With your mom and sister?”
“Things always remained cool with my sister. It was me and the rest of the household that didn’t see eye to eye. Marc saw I was troubled and wanted to know why. When I told him, he offered me his spare bedroom. Taking him up on that offer was the best decision I could have made. Undoubtedly changed my life.”
“Katrina, though devastating, led you to your destiny.”
“I guess so.”
“So you believe you survived because the restaurant gave you focus.”
“Focus. Family. Goals. Motivation. Marc was like a father figure to me. Still is.”
“Did you know your father?”
Pierre shook his head.
“Did your family situation ever smooth out in Houston?”
After a long pause, he nodded. “Yes.”
“Does your mom still live there?”
“No.”
He hadn’t meant for the word to come out so harshly, but he didn’t want to discuss his mother.
“Where do you think you’d be had Katrina not happened and you’d stayed here in New Orleans?”
“That’s a good question,” he replied. One that Pierre had never asked himself. When the answer floated into his mind it surprised him, but he looked at Roz and answered truthfully. “Probably dead.”
Instinctively, she reached over and placed her hand on his forearm. “The streets can be dangerous. I’m glad you escaped them.”
“Me, too. I plan to pay it forward by doing for others here what Marc did for me in Houston. By teaching some of this city’s young men the joy of cooking, a lesson that teaches many other skills, as well.”
“What are you going to call it?”
“I don’t know yet. The idea is just a dream right now. I have my hands full getting this new business up and running.”
“Well, whenever it happens, the program sounds wonderful. Tell me more about it.”
Pierre did, becoming more talkative and animated as he expounded on his passion for cooking and for mentoring young men. Aside from Marc and Lisette, he hadn’t mentioned his dream to anyone, not even his sous chef, Riviera, who he planned to recruit to be a part of his mentoring team. It also helped that talking about the program took them away from speaking about floods and family.
They talked for two hours, leaving only when Ma threatened to make them help her clean up. Once outside, the two became quiet. Surprising, but Pierre knew what was on his mind. He wanted more conversations with this probing reporter, ones when she was not on the clock. Did she feel the same way?
“So, Mr. LeBlanc, was that as painful as you thought it would be?”
“Not at all. For a supposedly socially awkward sister, you’re not so bad.”
Roz gave him a look. “You’re not what I expected either.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone more shallow and self-absorbed. I mean, you may very well possess those traits, but I thank you that tonight at least you’ve kept them to yourself.”
“Ha!”
Roz held out her hand. “Seriously, it was a good interview. When it’s up online, I’ll send you a link.”
“You can do me one better,” Pierre replied, returning Roz’s handshake and once again noticing her soft skin. “You can bring a copy over to the restaurant and then stay for lunch or dinner, whichever works, on the house.”
“I thought you were sold out.”
“We are. But I’m the boss. I can make exceptions.”
“Thank you, but...I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What, eating?”
“Accepting your invitation for a free meal. There may be strings attached.”
“Will you feel better paying for it? Seems rather disingenuous to write about a restaurant you’ve not even visited.”
“I thought that was settled. The article will be about you, not the food. But put that way, I guess it would be advantageous to come to your establishment and find out what all the hype is about, a visit that could lead to a follow-up story.”
“What about Wednesday evening, around nine?”
“This Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t nine o’clock rather late?”
“Yes, but the kitchen isn’t as slammed at that hour. I could put all my focus on tantalizing your taste buds.”
Pierre watched Roz nibble the side of her lip as she thought. “Okay, Wednesday at Easy Creole Cuisine.”
“Cool. See you then.”
She reached her car, opened the door and then turned around. “Oh, and Pierre?”
“Yes.”
“I won, so thanks for my parent’s reservation, as well.”
Roz’s smile was mischievous, smug even. Pierre started toward her but she slid behind the wheel, started the car and sped away. Clearly, she wanted to have the last word.
Pulling away from the curb, he played back those last few minutes. The devilish glint in Roz’s eye as she boldly proclaimed victory regarding the bet. How her brow scrunched each time she nibbled her lip. How before saying yes to his invitation she’d darted her tongue out to moisten those tempting, cushy lips. He wondered how soft they were, and how long he’d have to wait to find out. A kiss was definitely in their future. That and much more. Roz may have won the food bet but after tonight Pierre was clear about the next thing he wanted to win. Her.
Chapter 7 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
There was more to Pierre’s story. Roz saw it in his eyes, could feel it in her gut. What he’d shared was interesting and would make a great piece. She had a feeling that what he didn’t say would make an even better one. Avoiding questions about his mom. Reluctance to talk about his family at all. Vague answers when asked about his early life in New Orleans... Those gorgeous green-flecked copper eyes tinged with a type of sadness that made her want to wipe it away. That fleeting look of vulnerability that, dammit, slipped past the armor around her heart and touched her soul. That made her want to tell him everything was going to turn out fine. Hadn’t that happened already?
It was as though she could still see that teenager inside him. The one uprooted by a storm, forced to navigate a new city and move in with a stranger. What had happened in his home life to cause that drastic action? Roz realized she’d ended the evening with more questions than answers. She wanted the rest of the story, had an opportunity to get it on Wednesday night. Dinner at Easy Creole Cuisine. He said there were no strings, but was there more to that, too? Another question popped up as Roz stopped for a red light. Did she want there to be?
Her phone rang. As the light turned green and she eased through the intersection, Roz tapped the car’s Bluetooth.
“Hey, Biff!”
