False Pretenses - Kathy Herman [15]
She smiled, remembering the sweet elderly customer who first walked through her door …
“Ah, dis is nice,” the old man said as his gaze flitted around the room. “So you da propriétaire?”
“Yes, I’m the owner, Zoe Benoit.” She shook his hand, careful not to let her elation overpower her professional demeanor. How long had she waited to say those words? Not bad for poor white trash from Devon Springs, Texas. As far as anyone here was concerned, she was as Cajun as the crawfish étoufée on the menu. “Welcome. And what is your name, Monsieur?”
“Da name’s Hebert Lanoux.”
Zoe smiled. “Please come in.”
She made sure Monsieur Lanoux was seated, and she watched from a polite distance, pleased that he seemed to savor every bite of the étoufée and then ordered bread pudding. She expected him to eat only half the entrée and take the other half home with him. But he ate every bite of it and his dessert, too!
Finally he wiped his mouth and put his napkin on the table and motioned for the waitress to bring him his check.
Zoe sauntered over to the table. “And how was your dinner, Monsieur Lanoux?”
“Ah, c’est bon.” He grinned, his hands patting his lean middle. “I tink dat was even better dan mamere’s cooking. And please call me Hebert. You’ll be seeing a lot of me—”
“Zoe …? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Pierce’s resonant voice brought her back to the present.
“Sorry, cher. My mind was wandering.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh … standing at the door at Zoe B’s on opening day. Do you realize that Hebert has come in almost every day—at least once—for the past decade?”
Pierce smiled, wrinkles of annoyance gone from his forehead. “What in the world made you think of that?”
“Seeing our new sign sent my mind in reverse, that’s all.”
“The new building colors sure make the place stand out.” He squeezed her hand. “Come on, babe, let’s go home.”
Home. What a different meaning that word had taken on since she married Pierce. In five years of marriage he had rarely raised his voice and never his fist.
Zoe walked with Pierce toward the alley behind the row of buildings that lined the south side of rue Madeline. Her life was good. After all these years, was God finally going to punish her for what she’d done? Was that what the note was about? Or was she worrying for nothing?
A man bumped into them, the jolt causing Zoe to drop her purse on the ground.
The man bent down and picked it up, brushed it off, and handed it to her. “I’m so sorry. I was watching the people. Guess I should’ve been watching where I was going. What a klutz.”
“No harm done. I’m Zoe Broussard, and this is my husband, Pierce. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Angus Shapiro from Dallas, Texas. I’m staying in Lafayette on business and drove down to Les Barbes to look around, maybe find souvenirs for my kids.”
Shapiro? Zoe smiled to herself at how odd that sounded, given the number of the Cajun French surnames in the area.
She shook hands with Angus. A respectable handshake, though his hand felt calloused and clammy. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Single dad? “Pierce and I own Zoe B’s Cajun Eatery. If you haven’t eaten yet and are looking for some authentic Cajun food, you should give it a try. We’re known for our crawfish étoufée —thanks to Pierce. He’s the head chef.”
Pierce shook the stranger’s hand, eyeing him cautiously. “Actually I’m a former-history-teacher-turned-chef. It seems I’ve found my calling.