Sweetheart Reunion (8 page)

Callie slapped at her arm then grabbed a carrot and starting chopping it. “Sweetie, I don’t think he’s got you having a proper Christian attitude on his mind right now.”

“Stop it,” Alma said, grinning in spite of her red cheeks. “I haven’t thought of Julien in that way in a long, long time.”

“Never? Really never?” Callie asked, her knife pointing in the air. “Not once since y’all broke up?”

“Okay, maybe every now and then. It’s hard to forget. He was so…different. Such a sweet talker, so…bad. So not my type.” So much her type, Alma silently corrected.

“Yeah, we all remember that part.”

“But there was good in him, even back then. I think the good’s overtaking the bad in him now. He’s wrestling with things, trying to fight the devil at the crossroads.”

“What about all those other women he’s supposedly dated?”

Alma stilled. She couldn’t be jealous. And she couldn’t think about Julien with someone else. “I haven’t seen him with anybody in a while now.”

Callie leaned close. “Alma, you’re kind of defending the man. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” Alma admitted. “He’s just…different lately. I think he’s worried about his mama and his brother and it’s like looking into a mirror. His prior actions are now being emulated by Pierre. We all know that boy loves his big brother.”

“And Julien’s the only male role model he has now.”

“Exactly. So maybe he’s not so much wanting to get closer to me as he’s wanting to make a better impression on his brother. I’m all for helping Pierre, but I don’t like being used in that way.”

“You could be a part of that,” Callie said, obviously glad to have something dramatic and romantic to gnaw on. “You could help him make a difference in his brother’s life.”

“I could.” Alma finished the big salad and quickly covered it in plastic wrap for the lunch crowd. “I could. But I don’t want to give Julien false hope. I can’t pretend. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“What if you weren’t pretending?”

“What do you mean?”

Callie snared a carrot and started chewing on it. “What if you actually did give Julien LeBlanc another chance?”

Chapter Eight

H
er sister’s suggestion floored Alma.

She’d been fighting Julien at every turn, determined to keep him at arm’s length. That self-imposed self-control had been her edge over the past few years, had kept her sane and settled. Because after she’d refused his initial tries at getting her back after the disastrous prom night, Julien had backed off and left her alone for the most part. Maybe because Alma had told him in no uncertain terms that she refused to even think about him until he’d cleaned up his act and grown up.

Then came her mother’s illness. She’d focused all of her energy and prayers on that, which gave a girl plenty of reason not to think about a lost love. Except maybe in the wee hours of the night when she’d lie in her bed and let the silent tears trail down her cheeks, tears for her mother, tears for her family and tears for that lost love.

But now, because of his father’s death and maybe because he’d suddenly seen his own mortality bright and clear, Julien had gone and ramped up his presence in her life, had stated loud and clear that he was going to make an aggressive assault on her sensibilities. And it seemed to be working, whether she liked it or not.

But that kiss… And the way he seemed to see her for the first time in a long time, the way he looked at her now. Had he always looked at her that way and she’d just been too stupid to see it? Or had she only longed for this?

No, he’d dated other woman, or so she thought. Had he been trying to meet her standards all of this time and now he’d finally realized he was there? Had he tried and failed to get on with his life, the same way she’d tried and failed?

“I can’t think about this now,” she told Callie, her hands grasping for some busy work. “I think I’ll make a Doberge cake. I haven’t made one of those in a long time. Should I make chocolate or lemon? Or a mixture?”

Callie grabbed Alma’s hand. “That’s Julien’s favorite dessert.”

Alma let out a gasp. “I made one for him after…after his father died.” She turned and put a hand to her brow. “Oh, I might be in trouble.”

“You can make the cake,” Callie said, her tone gentle. “Sell it to your customers. Get it out of your system. But whatever you do, don’t take this cake to Julien.”

“Why?” Alma asked, afraid of the answer.

“It would make you just as impulsive as him,” Callie replied. “It’s a big step, thinking about Julien again. He was your first love. Take this slow, Alma. Don’t look at it as your last chance.”

She whirled to glare at her sister. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean. Julien is locked in here in Fleur.”

Alma lifted a hand into the air. “And I’m not?”

“You could easily go. Just go and travel and explore and try to open your own restaurant in New Orleans or Atlanta or anywhere you’ve ever dreamed about.”

“I’m not so sure about that now. It’s hard to start a business from scratch these days. And I can’t leave Papa.”

“You could. Papa would send you with his blessings and some start-up cash.”

“But we both know he’s hurting. I couldn’t leave him now.” She turned to look for the flour. “And I certainly can’t leave this place.”

“Winnie could take over as your manager,” Callie suggested. “She’s been here practically since the beginning. Mama trained her.”

Alma knew that, had considered it many times. Winnie had always been her relief, the one she turned to when she couldn’t make it in to work, which was rare. “I’m not ready to let go.”

Callie leaned close, the buzz of people moving and talking around them humming to a dull roar. “Maybe you’re
afraid
to let go.”

Then Callie gave her a peck on the cheek and walked away.

Alma stood there holding the flour container, the sound of dishes clinking together playing in perfect harmony with the sizzle of bacon and the hiss of pancakes hitting the griddle.

I want to leave, Lord,
she prayed.
I want to just go and run and keep on running. I want to be away, far away from my pain and my guilt and my worries about what the future might bring. But…I can’t let go. I can’t. Mama loved this café. And I loved Mama. I can’t break my daddy’s heart again. Help me, Lord. Help me to accept that this might be my calling.

And what if this was her calling? Could she settle for that?

Alma hurried to the refrigerator and grabbed eggs and butter, her actions automatic and ingrained, like the tide flowing in and out of the gulf. But inside, her mind was in turmoil, a raging storm of worry and wonder that threatened her safe, solid existence. And she was afraid that storm was going to hit sooner than later and change her world into something she wasn’t ready to face.

Unless she found a way to keep it at bay.

* * *

She baked the Doberge cake, and took it to the festival committee meeting.

“You brought a dobash cake?” Mayor Denny Daigle said, using the locals’ name for the cake. “Man, I love me some of that.”

Alma sliced him a piece, the seven layers of cake and creamy pudding as beautiful on the inside as the chocolate fondant covering the outside. “Here you go, Mr. Mayor.”

“Hmm.” Denny grabbed a fork and dug in, his lips smacking with each bite.

Frances LaBorde came up and sniffed at the cake. “Looks mighty good, Alma. Is it a special occasion?”

“No, I was just in the mood to bake,” Alma replied, her gaze cast down.

Then she glanced up and saw Julien coming toward her, his swagger intact, his jeans clean and fitting just right, his button-up shirt pressed and crisp. His hair, always so dark and wild, was brushed and shiny. But one rascal of a curl dipped over his dark brows like an enticing question mark.

Her heart went as soft as the creamy pudding holding the cake together. Mercy, what was happening to her?

Julien looked at the cake instead of her. “Is that a dobash cake?”

“Sure is,” Reverend Guidry said through a grin and a bite. “Alma, this is as good as my dear grandmama’s dobash. You have to make this more often.”

Alma couldn’t speak. Her throat was dry, her hands sweaty.

Julien’s gaze slinked up from the cake to her face. “Looks so good.”

“Would you like a slice?”

“You know I would,” he said, his gaze lingering over her lips.

Alma wouldn’t let her hand tremble as she cut into the moist, rich cake. She held steady as she slapped the fat slice down on a paper plate. She refused to look up as she handed it to Julien.

His fingers brushed hers and a warmth seemed to seep into her very bones. “Thank you, Alma.”

She finally gave in and lifted her head, her gaze searching for him. Big mistake. The icing covering that cake didn’t have nearly the richness of Julien’s beautiful chocolate eyes. He gave her a long stare, a serious look that held her.

“You’re welcome,” she squeaked out.

Julien found a seat then poured a cup of coffee and sat silently eating his cake. His stony quietness was even more disconcerting than his teasing and flirting, Alma decided.

What was he up to now?

* * *

What was she up to, baking this cake?

Alma knew how much Julien loved a good Doberge cake. He always went to the original Doberge Bakery when he was in New Orleans so he could bring home a cake.

But Alma’s version was every bit as good as the original, for sure. He watched her while he savored each bite. She’d baked this cake today, right after he’d talked to her daddy.

To torment him?

Or to send him a definite message?

Hmm, maybe both.

He chewed on that while he enjoyed the cake. Then he held his plate up. “I’d like another slice, please.”

Alma’s smile was so soft, it reminded him of water lilies floating in a hush on a pond. And choked him in the same way those pretty lilies could choke a bayou.

He reached for the second, bigger slice, his fingers deliberately touching hers, his eyes holding her as she gasped and drew her hand back then shot him a stern look.

He took a big bite, enjoying the moist cake against the creamy pudding while enjoying watching her blush and take her seat.

Two could play this game. It seemed Alma was one of the two now. A first step. A little dance of acceptance, even while her eyes denied she’d taken up the gauntlet.

“Cela devrait être amusant.”

“What did you say, Julien?” Frances asked, her eyes bright with interest.

“I said this meeting should be fun. I’m all about the festival.”

He winked at Alma.

She started scribbling in her neat little notebook.

“Where’s your daddy?” Frances asked Alma, her tone just above desperate.

“He should be here,” Alma said, her words quiet and firm.

Frances checked the door then let out a sigh. “Well, let’s get started, shall we?”

Frances had been trying to get Alma’s daddy to notice her since the day she’d delivered a big pot of jambalaya after the funeral. Julien had noticed the flirtation and he knew it bothered Alma. A lot seemed to be bothering Alma tonight.

He hoped he was first in line.

Frances shuffled through her notes. “First up—the
cochon de lait
.”

Alma looked up and right at Julien. “I can report on the pig roast, Miss Frances.”

So maybe she wasn’t playing after all, Julien thought. Except to insult him, of course.

“I’d be glad to help with that,” Julien said, forgetting he was already in charge of popcorn and…he couldn’t remember what else.

“You’re already in charge of popcorn, cotton candy and funnel cakes,” Miss Frances kindly reminded him. “We don’t want to overburden you your first year as a committee member.”

Julien nodded. “Okay, then.”

“Would you like to give your report?” Frances asked, seeming to forget the pig roast.

Everyone waited while Julien realized he didn’t have a report. “I don’t have a report.”

Alma rolled her eyes and tapped her pen on the table. “We explained this at the last meeting. You need to get volunteers lined up. You need to talk to Reverend Guidry about the machines and supplies. You need to set up a schedule.”

“And you need to be writing this down,” Frances added, her look of disapproval aimed squarely at Julien.

Alma tore a piece of paper out of her notebook with a bit too much zest and shoved it toward him. “Do you have a pen?”

“Here, son,” the reverend said, shaking his head and grinning. “I’ll help you since I have the equipment and I’ll show you how to mix everything so you don’t get popcorn in the cotton candy, at least.”

“Thank you,” Julien said, sitting up to look interested. “I’ll get it all together. I know I’m supposed to get some of the young people to help, right?”

“That’s right,” the reverend replied. “I’ve already mentioned it to our youth director. She’s made a schedule so the kids can see when they need to report to your booth.”

Julien wrote that down. “Check. Youth already have a schedule.”

“Good,” Frances said. “We expect well over five thousand people on festival day.”

“Five thousand people?” Julien frowned. “That’s a lot of popcorn.” Wouldn’t leave him much time to follow Alma around.

“Now you’re getting the picture,” Alma replied. “This is serious business. It brings tourists to our town and puts dollars into the local economy—something we all need to be serious about.”

Well, she’d certainly put him in his place.

“I get that,” Julien said. “That’s why I’m here. Now back to that pig roast…”

Ramon Blanchard walked up just in time to scowl at Julien. “I’ll be glad to roast a pig.”

“Like father, like daughter,” Julien mumbled.

* * *

Alma offered more cake slices to the committee members, including Julien. Kissing her reticent father good night, she headed off to her house, her nearly empty cake carrier tucked underneath her arm.

Until two strong hands lifted it away from her body. “Why do you always walk home alone? It’s not safe.”

Julien.

Her heart took off faster than her feet.

Finding her voice, she retorted, “I live across the street.”

“It’s still not safe.”

“I know the neighborhood.”

“I worry about you.”

Alma stopped, looking both ways. She’d hate to push him out in front of a car. “You mean you worry about me since you had some kind of revelation? I’ve been just fine for oh, a long time now. So fine that you’ve hardly noticed.”

“I’ve always worried,” he admitted. Then he escorted her across the empty street. “Why did you bake me a cake?”

She stopped again, back on the safe side of the sidewalk. “I didn’t bake you a cake. I baked a cake to serve at the festival meeting and you had a piece or two there.”

“And you knew I’d be there.”

“Actually, I wasn’t sure you’d be there. You’re not that dependable.”