Breakfast in Bed

by Rochelle Alers

  Light from a quartet of chandeliers shimmered off collections of heirloom table settings of bone-white china, delicate crystal stemware, and gleaming silver engraved with a bold D in Edwardian script. Tonya tried imagining women from a bygone era who once graced this same ballroom in one of the grandest houses in the Garden District, coquettish women peering over their lacy fans at fastidiously dressed suitors seeking to woo them as wives or mistresses. Hannah had related tales about the historic house, filled with priceless antiques, that had become the residence to generations of DuPonts, beginning with Etienne DuPont who left France for Haiti in the eighteenth century. He then traveled to the Louisiana Territory with his mixed-race mistress and their children to begin a legacy that continued to the present day.

  Hannah had contracted with two catering companies for the cocktail hour and dinner. Guests were offered a choice of the traditional steak, chicken, and fish plates or the southern Louisiana regional Creole and Cajun dishes. Eustace, owner of the family’s restaurant Chez Toussaints, exchanged his tuxedo jacket for a chef’s coat and hat. He joked that he had the distinctive honor of being St. John’s groomsman and the caterer for his cousin’s wedding.

  A member of the waitstaff directed Tonya to her seat at a table where she was flanked by two men. The man on her left introduced himself as Paul Lee, St. John’s colleague. The exquisitely attired man on her right made her acquaintance as Cameron Singleton, the bride’s investment banker. Hannah, who did not want a table for the bridal party, had instructed the planner to seat complete strangers next to each other. It allowed everyone to become acquainted with one another, while she and St. John were seated facing each other at opposite ends of the table.

  “How long have you known Hannah?” Cameron Singleton asked Tonya.

  She gave Cameron a sidelong glance. Everything about his deportment was a reminder of the wealthy Wakefield Hamilton clients seeking to invest their vast fortunes in American companies. They arrived in chauffeured-driven cars wearing haute couture and were greeted in their native tongues by multilingual employees and then escorted to the executive dining room for meals rivaling White House state dinners.

  Cameron’s clean-shaven, tanned face and classically handsome features radiated good health, while flecks of gray shimmered like gold in his thick, fashionably styled light-brown hair. It was when she met his steel-blue eyes that she felt slightly uncomfortable. It was as if there was no warmth behind the penetrating orbs.

  “It’s been about five years. We worked together in New York.”

  “Are you also an attorney?” he asked.

  Smiling, Tonya shook her head. “No. I’m a chef.”

  Cameron’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “So, you’re the one who will run the restaurant once Hannah converts this house into an inn?”

  Her smile faded quickly. “You know about that?”

  He smiled for the first time, the gesture softening his features and lighting up his luminous eyes as he inclined his head. “Yes. My family’s firm has managed the DuPont fortune for at least eighty-five years. She came to me earlier this summer to solicit my advice about liquidating some of her investments to ensure the viability of the inn.”

  A hint of a smile played at the corners of Tonya’s mouth. “So, you’re the one who suggested she get investors.”

  Cameron’s smile grew wider. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I’m glad you suggested it, because if you hadn’t, then I doubt whether I’d ever plan to move down here.” Their conversation was preempted when a waiter asked for their dining selections. Tonya chose traditional New Orleans dishes, while Cameron opted for prime rib.

  “When are you moving?” he asked.

  “I’m projecting early next year.” She didn’t tell Cameron she still had to discuss the legalese in the contract Hannah had drawn up before presenting it to her own attorney for his perusal, and once approved she would then authorize her bank to electronically transfer the agreed-upon amount to Hannah’s bank account.

  “What about your friends?”

  She noticed Cameron was staring directly at Jasmine, who was engrossed in conversation with a man who appeared obviously enthralled with her. Tonya knew by the direction of Cameron’s attention that he too was interested in the interior designer turned human resource specialist.

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Hannah about Jasmine and Nydia.”

  Cameron blinked slowly at the same time a sardonic smile flitted over his firm mouth. “Oh, I will.”

  Tonya was slightly taken aback at his response, and within seconds she knew instinctually that if Cameron wanted something, then it was his intent to go after it. But she wanted to warn the seemingly arrogant moneyman that Jasmine was not one to fall for the charm he appeared to turn on and off with such precision that it had probably had taken him years to perfect. She transferred her attention to Paul, leaving Cameron to stare longingly at Jasmine.

  Glasses were filled with sparkling water and different wines as the waitstaff moved silently and efficiently about the tables. The disc jockey, who had set up his equipment earlier that afternoon, decided on a playlist of Broadway show tunes. He adjusted the volume so the diners did not have to shout to one another.

  Tonya had to admit the caterers had outdone themselves with selections ranging from prime rib, grilled lamb chops, and salmon, Cornish hens, flounder stuffed with crabmeat, and blackened tuna. The accompanying sides included red beans and rice, broiled asparagus parmigiana, dirty rice, baked black-eyed peas, and Creole eggplant gratin. Although she had eaten dishes from all over the world, Tonya discovered she had fallen in love with New Orleans cooking.

  She had sampled gumbo and red beans and rice in different Creole-themed New York City restaurants, but they could not compare to what Eustace prepared, and if she planned to open a restaurant, then she knew she had to perfect the local cuisine in order to compete with the many other establishments in the city. Hannah had tentatively projected opening the DuPont Inn in time for Mardi Gras. The smaller guesthouse would be renovated into a café to provide a buffet breakfast for inn guests, while the projected date for the supper club’s grand opening was scheduled for later that summer. By that time she knew she would be more than ready to offer international as well as familiar dishes.

  Dinner was leisurely and interrupted several times with toasts to the bride and groom, who both stood up to acknowledge everyone. The mood changed, becoming livelier as the DJ switched his playlist to more upbeat tunes, while the waitstaff set up a number of round tables, each with seating for six for the reception. The invitation indicated dancing would follow dessert and coffee. Tonya knew she had eaten too much and prayed she would not encounter a wardrobe malfunction in which her breasts escaped the revealing décol-letage. A silent voice had told her when she first tried on the gown that she was flirting with danger, but she ignored it because it made her feel feminine and sexy.

  As soon as coffee was served, she sought out Eustace in the kitchen that never ceased to overwhelm her with its size and functionality. When first introduced to the cook, Tonya thought she could have been looking at her twin brother, because they had the same reddish-brown complexion and dimpled cheeks. Father of three, grandfather of seven, standing several inches above six feet, Eustace had years ago forfeited the opportunity to play college football to join his father running Chez Toussaints.

  Eustace crossed massive arms over his broad chest and smiled at Tonya. “Are you here to grade us like they do with restaurants in New York City?” he teased.

  She smiled. “If I had to give you a grade, then it certainly would be an A, along with a Zagat rating. I just want you to know that you’ve outdone yourself tonight.”

  Eustace inclined his head. “Thank you, madam chef. How long are you going to be in town?”

  “I’ll be here until Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Why don’t you come by the restaurant tomorrow and I’ll show you some Toussaint secrets for some of our best-selling dis
hes.”

  Tonya went completely still. Cooks and chefs were notorious for not revealing the ingredients that went into their more popular dishes. “Okay,” she said when she finally recovered her voice.

  “I’m catering another party tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll have my brother come by and pick you up—say around seven. I hope that’s not too early for you.”

  “Of course not,” she replied, much too quickly. If one of the most renowned cooks in the city was willing to reveal his family’s secrets and wanted her there at midnight, then she would be ready and willing to agree to any time. “Thank you, Eustace.”

  He waved a large hand. “There’s no need to thank me. If my cousin’s wife is going to open a restaurant, then the chef that’s going to run the restaurant can’t embarrass the family.”

  Tonya nodded. It was apparent Eustace regarded Hannah as family now that she was married to St. John.

  She returned to the ballroom. The banquet tables had been cleared, and the guests claimed seats at the round tables as bartenders were taking drink orders. Tonya had just claimed a chair at a table with St. John’s sister, brother-in-law, and their children when the DJ announced the bride and groom were going to share their first dance as husband and wife. St. John had shed his jacket, while Hannah had changed her shoes. Tonya was as surprised as everyone when they assumed dance positions for the tango.

  A roar of approval went up in the ballroom as they literally floated across the floor like professional dancers to Adele’s “Sweetest Devotion.” Hannah boasted that she had become St. John’s dance partner over the summer. They are perfect together. The thought had entered Tonya’s head unbidden. It had only taken seconds for her to acknowledge that Hannah had it all: a magnificent home, a brilliant, handsome new husband, and a new career as an innkeeper.

  She exhaled an audible sigh and smiled. Never again would she be called into an office and told it was to become her last day. And knowing she would own and operate her own restaurant strengthened Tonya’s resolve to make her own dream a reality.

  Chapter 3

  Gage Toussaint exhaled a groan at the same time he slowed the SUV to just under the city’s speed limit. He was past tired. In fact, he was exhausted and had stopped short of cursing out his brother after Eustace left a voice mail message asking him to pick up Tonya Martin at DuPont House Sunday morning at seven in the blasted a.m.

  Not only had he been up early Saturday morning helping Eustace prepare dishes for his cousin’s wedding to Hannah DuPont, but he also played several sets later that night. He had left the restaurant and then rushed to Jazzes to rehearse several new numbers with the house band for a surprise birthday celebration that was to be held at the club. If the guest of honor had not been an old friend and an elected official, Gage would have looked for another horn player to take his place. After rehearsing, he had just enough time to return to his apartment, shower, and change before returning to the jazz club to set up for the party.

  Gage felt old, completely drained, although at forty-six he would not have thought of himself as old. However, he knew for certain he had to decide whether he wanted to be a full-time chef, full-time musician, and/or high school music instructor, because he found it more and more difficult to combine two careers. If he joined Chez Toussaints full-time, then that meant he had to be at the restaurant at six in the morning to prepare for the lunchtime customers and fulfill ever increasing catering orders. That was nearly impossible when there were nights he did not leave Jazzes until just before dawn. Although he loved cooking, it still was not his passion. Music was.

  He continued driving along a wide avenue lined on both sides with large, imposing homes with magnificent gardens that had given the neighborhood its name: the Garden District. DuPont House was a plantation-style house built in the late eighteenth century by free people of color when Louisiana was still a territory. Gage turned off through the open gates, maneuvered up the winding drive to the antebellum mansion, and stopped. He shut off the engine.

  The figure of a woman rose from the shadows from where she sat on the porch. Gage had not realized he’d been holding his breath until she came closer. Galvanized into action, he got out. The first thing he noticed was her dimpled smile. Unconsciously a smile parted his lips as he mounted the stairs, his gaze fixed on her beautiful face. It was impossible for him to pinpoint her age because he did not see a single line or wrinkle in a face without a hint of makeup. The women who worked at Jazzes and some female patrons wore so much makeup he doubted whether he would recognize them without it. Everything about Tonya was refreshing, from her stylishly cut, short, lightly graying hair and bare face to her white camp blouse, navy-blue cropped slacks, and navy deck shoes.

  He extended his hand. “I’m Gage Toussaint. My brother asked me to pick you up and take you to the restaurant.”

  She stared at his hand for several seconds before offering her own. “Tonya Martin. I hope your coming here so early didn’t inconvenience you.”

  “Of course not,” Gage said, much too quickly.

  He had gotten home from the club at four, picked up the voice mail, and then set his smart phone to wake him at six. He lay sprawled on the recliner in the living room rather than go to bed because he did not want to oversleep. After a cold shower and a cup of strong, hot black coffee, he felt alert enough to drive.

  Tonya reached for the leather tote on the rocker. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Cradling her elbow, Gage led her off the porch to the Audi, the subtle scent of her perfume wafting to his nostrils. He leaned in as she slid onto the passenger seat, wondering what it was about the woman his brother wanted to bring to Chez Toussaints that made him feel slightly off balance when he knew nothing about her other than her name.

  He noticed she didn’t wear any rings, but that was not an indication whether she was married or single. One thing he knew for certain was she had not grown up in the South. Within seconds of introducing herself, he recognized a Northern inflection in her voice. Gage took his seat behind the wheel and then secured his seatbelt. He punched the start-engine button, shifted into gear, and headed for Tremé.

  Tonya glanced at Gage’s profile in an attempt to see the resemblance between him and Eustace, but there was nothing in the younger man’s appearance to indicate they were even remotely related. When Eustace said he would have his brother pick her up and bring her to his restaurant, she never would have expected him to be the man she recalled playing trumpet with the band at the jazz club she had visited during her first trip to New Orleans.

  Nydia and Jasmine had remarked on his good looks, while she had merely stared, finding him breathtakingly attractive. Seeing Gage on stage was very different from sitting a few feet away from him. Large gray-green eyes framed by long black lashes, a palomino-gold complexion, and delicate features, cleft chin, and cropped straight black hair with flecks of gray made him drop-dead gorgeous. And to add to the total package was a rich baritone voice with a distinctive Southern drawl.

  “When Eustace told me he would have his brother pick me up, I never would’ve thought it would be you,” she said after a comfortable silence.

  His right hand resting on the gearshift while he steered expertly with his left when he turned a corner, Gage smiled. “Why would you say that?”

  “You don’t resemble each other.”

  Gage smiled. “We’re brothers from different mothers. Eustace’s mother died when he was still an infant. Pop waited almost ten years before marrying again. And what do you mean you didn’t think it would be me?”

  Tonya stared at his profile, then moved downward, her gaze lingering on the tiny musical notes tattooed on his right forearm. She was not overly fond of tattoos and men wearing earrings but found the ink and the tiny hoops in his pierced lobes fitting for a musician. “I saw you playing at Jazzes.”

  Taking his eyes off the road, he gave her a quick glance. “When was that?”

  “It was late June, when my friends and I came down
to hang out with Hannah.”

  “How long were you here?”

  She paused, counting the days. “We’d planned to stay two weeks, but it got so hot that we just stayed a week. I met Eustace for the first time when I volunteered to help him at your family’s reunion.”

  Gage’s eyebrows lifted. “So you’re the cook he talked about.”

  Tonya’s mouth tightened in frustration. She lost track of the number of times people referred her as a cook when she had worked and sacrificed so much to become a professional chef. “I’m not a cook.”

  Gage looked at her again. “What are you?”

  “I’m a chef.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m a graduate of Johnson and Wales.”

  A beat passed. “Aren’t you the chef who will be cooking for Hannah once she opens her inn?”

  Tonya knew it was premature to openly acknowledge she would take over the cooking duties for the café and supper club. She and Hannah still had to go over the contractual agreement making her an investor in the DuPont Inn. Then she had to discuss the details with her attorney. Once he assured her that it would be a worthwhile business arrangement, she’d sign.

  “You’ve heard about that?”

  Gage nodded. “Everyone’s talking about the DuPont House becoming the DuPont Inn.”

  “Is the talk positive or negative?”

  “It’s mostly positive.”

  “What have you heard that’s negative?”

  “That the DuPonts are cash-poor. And they’ve decided to convert DuPont House from a private residence to a business to raise enough money so they won’t have to sell it.”