Breakfast in Bed

by Rochelle Alers

  They worked well together. Now he knew why Eustace had sung her praises when she halved the time it would have taken him to cater the book club party. Gage opened the oven to check the water level in a pan of roast beef, adding more until it was at least two inches deep.

  “Are you teaching today?” she asked after a long, comfortable silence.

  Gage glanced up at the wall clock. “My first class isn’t until eleven. Right now I’m a permanent substitute for the orchestra teacher, who was the victim of a hit-and-run. I got the call late yesterday afternoon from the principal that Mr. Murdock was taken to the hospital and the prognosis is he won’t be able to return to work for at least four to five months.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “It is. He has a spinal injury, along with two broken legs. Thankfully someone copied down the license plate of the driver before he drove away, so it’s just a matter of time before they catch the heartless bastard.”

  “How many classes are you teaching?”

  “Two, but then there’s after-school practice. This year the orchestra has qualified to compete for the state championship.”

  “Do you ever give private lessons?”

  He shook his head. “No. Most of the kids can’t afford private lessons. I’ll usually stay after practice to work with a student who may need extra help.”

  “When do you sleep or even have time for a social life?” Tonya asked.

  “Are you asking me if I’m involved with a woman?”

  “No . . . of course not,” she said quickly. “I just asked if you take time out to have some fun.”

  Gage sobered. If he was truly honest, then he would say he didn’t have an active social life, and he had not had one in a while. “Teaching and playing at Jazzes and helping Eustace with catering take up a lot my waking hours. And I haven’t been in a relationship for a while because I don’t have the time to make it work.”

  “All work and no play makes for a dull boy.”

  Picking up the pot of fish stock, he poured it through a strainer into another large pot and discarded the solids. “I’ve never thought of myself as dull. And to prove it, I’d like you to hang out with me one night when I’m not playing at Jazzes.”

  Tonya gave a sidelong glance. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “It really wouldn’t be a date, because I don’t want to be responsible for you cheating on your man.”

  Several seconds went by. “I don’t have a man. But if you just want to hang out, then I’m okay with that.”

  Gage successfully concealed a smile. There was something about Tonya he liked—a lot—and he instinctively knew hanging out with her would not only be fun, but also stimulating, because they both were chefs, had lived abroad, and when it came to marriage—been there, done that. In the past he had dated so many women who were so immature that he had begun to think maybe there was something wrong with him. He extended his hand. “Give me your cell and I’ll program my number.”

  “It’s in my tote. I’ll give you my number, and you call me whenever you’re free.”

  “Are you staying with Hannah and St. John?”

  “No. I’m living in one of the guesthouses at DuPont House until the renovations are completed.”

  Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, Gage handed Tonya his cell phone, waiting until she tapped in the numbers. He studied the phone number, committing it to memory. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a two-one-two area code.”

  “Do you miss New York?” she asked.

  “Sometimes I do, but not enough to live there again. What about you? Do you think you’ll adjust to living down here?”

  “I’m good as long as I don’t have to deal with snowstorms and below-freezing temperatures.”

  “Maybe I should go back home and take the day off, now that you two seem to have everything under control here.”

  Gage turned to find Eustace standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “That’s not happening, brother, because in a couple of hours I’m going home to change for my real job.”

  Eustace strolled across the kitchen and gave Tonya a bear hug. “Welcome back.”

  Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you. It’s good to be back, and I’m here to help out any way I can.”

  Gage smiled as he watched the interchange between his brother and the woman who unknowingly had ensnared him in a web of longing he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He liked her because she was direct; she was nothing like some women he knew who were into playing head games. A few had set up scenarios in an attempt to make him jealous, but it always backfired. There was no way he was going to confront a man about the woman with whom he had been physically involved. But on the other hand, everything about Tonya appealed to him as a man, and the fact they shared a love of cooking was something he could not ignore. He wasn’t looking for a relationship, and he suspected neither was she, so that meant they could begin as friends and then see where that would take them.

  Chapter 7

  Tonya stood at the prep table chopping, dicing, and mincing onion, celery, red and green bell peppers, garlic, thyme, and parsley for the various dishes on the day’s menu board. The distinctive voice of Billie Holiday singing the poignant protest song “Strange Fruit” flowed from the radio speakers, and in a moment of shared emotion she met the eyes of Eustace and Gage. She may not have grown up in the South during segregation and Jim Crow, but she knew the strange fruit Billie sang about were victims of lynching.

  Eustace must have registered the somber mood, because he picked up the remote device and changed the radio station to music that was more contemporary and upbeat. “That’s better,” he said under his breath as he returned to the stove.

  Gage had removed several large bowls filled with chicken from the refrigerator and sprinkled them with the house Cajun seasoning. He did the same with slices of catfish, while Eustace poured a couple of tablespoons of oil in a large Dutch oven and heated it before browning the chicken pieces for chicken-andouille gumbo.

  “How often do you change your menu?” Tonya asked Eustace as she set the bowls of chopped ingredients on the countertop.

  “Not too often. We try to have customer favorites every day, and that includes gumbos, red beans and rice, fried catfish, and Cajun jambalaya.”

  “What’s the difference between Creole and Cajun jambalaya?”

  “Gage can answer that for you.”

  “Cajun jambalaya is brown, never made with tomatoes, and always has smoked sausage or tasso,” Gage explained. “Creole jambalaya is reddish, a color it gets from tomatoes, and always contains shrimp.”

  “Which do you like best?” she asked him.

  “I like both.”

  “I’m going to have to sample both before I make a decision which I like best,” Tonya said. She glanced at the menu board again. “I’ve heard of shrimp, oyster, and sausage po’boys, but I see you’re serving roast beef po’boys.”

  Eustace patted his belly over his apron. “I love roast beef po’boys. There’s something about thinly sliced beef and gravy on fresh French bread with lettuce, tomatoes, mayo, and pickles that’s out of this world.” He patted his belly again. “It’s one of the reasons I got this corporation up front.”

  “Speaking of bread,” Gage said, “where the hell is the bread man? He should’ve been here hours ago.”

  “I don’t mind making the bread,” she volunteered. “I’m not bragging, but I can make incredible authentic French baguettes.”

  Gage shared a look with his brother. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  Tonya gave him a long, penetrating stare when he met her eyes. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to make them.”

  “Well, we do have baguette trays in the storeroom, so if you want to bake baguettes, I don’t have a problem with it. What do you say, Eustace?”

  A beat passed, and then Eustace said, “Yes. But I have to pay you for baking the bread,
and close your mouth and don’t say anything because I’ll fire you if you—”

  “You can’t fire me,” Tonya said, cutting him off. “I’m a volunteer, not an employee,” she added, smiling. “And I won’t accept money from you, because whatever I learn in this kitchen can’t be measured in dollars and cents. Don’t you realize you’re offering me a free education when it comes to perfecting regional dishes?”

  Eustace paused, as he appeared to be deep in thought. “You’re probably right about that.”

  She flashed a smug grin. “I know I’m right. Starting tomorrow I’ll make baguettes for your po’boys.”

  The words were barely off her tongue when the bell chimed. “I hope that’s the bread man,” Gage said under his breath. “I’ll get it.”

  Tonya waited until he left the kitchen before she moved closer to Eustace. “I didn’t mean to sound overbearing, but I told you before that I’m willing to help out anyway I can, and if that means baking bread then I’ll do it. It may be six months or even nine months before I will be able to open my supper club, and when I do, I want to hit the ground running. People come to New Orleans for the food and music, and that’s something I need to perfect if I want to stay open. I can’t compete with other restaurants, because they’re just too many, but when folks leave my place I want them to think about coming back again, and that’s not going to happen if I don’t offer dishes that represent this city.”

  Eustace chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t fire you even if you were an employee. I know what you can do, and I’m certain there are a lot of things I can learn from you, because your wings were a big hit with the book club women. I tried making them again, but they didn’t turn out like yours. My stepmother taught Gage to make the bread we use for the pudding, while I’m completely useless when it comes to working with dough. So, if you want to bake bread, then just do it. I’m going to give you a key and the code to the alarm, so you can come in whenever you want.”

  Tonya felt a warm glow through her. It was apparent Eustace trusted her not only with his family’s secret recipes but also respected her suggestions. “Thank you.”

  “No thank you, Tonya. It’s too bad we can’t go into business together because then I’d let your run Chez Toussaints with my daughters, while I devote all of my energies to expanding my catering business.”

  “That can’t happen, because I’ve committed to running the café and supper club for the inn.”

  Eustace winked at her. “You can’t blame a dude for trying. Hannah knows I’ll do any and everything I can to help her business succeed because she’s family.”

  Tonya nodded. Hannah told her that once she married St. John McNair, she was also considered a Baptiste and a Toussaint. And because of her partnership with Hannah, Tonya was now privy to secret recipes handed down through generations of Toussaints.

  Gage returned to the kitchen with two large paper bags filled with loaves of French bread. “The driver said he had a flat tire and didn’t have a spare.”

  That’s another reason for baking your own bread, Tonya mused. Chez Toussaints could not compare to the restaurants where she had worked that were staffed with personnel ranging from executive, sous, and pastry chefs, along with a broiler cook, baker, fry/sauté cook, servers, and bus person, but it could be run just as efficiently. Once she opened her restaurants, she would bake enough bread to supply her place and Chez Toussaints.

  Tonya sliced tomatoes, washed and dried lettuce leaves for the po’boys, placing them in plastic containers before they were stored on shelves in the walk-in refrigerator. She shelled and deveined countless pounds of shrimp that would be battered and fried for the sandwich.

  “Are you certain you’ll sell out all of these today?” she asked Gage when he moved over to stand next to her.

  He nodded. “We usually sell out of shrimp po’boys before noon. It’s one of the most requested items on the menu. We call them firecracker shrimp because we add cayenne to the dry seasonings. That and a spicy garlic mayonnaise made it an instant hit the first time we put it on the menu.”

  “Do you make your own mayonnaise?” She had noticed a large glass jar in the fridge labeled mayo.

  “Yes. But that’s another family secret.”

  “Garlic mayonnaise by another name is aioli.”

  “That is it,” he confirmed with a wide grin, “but we add chilies in addition to Tabasco sauce to give it an extra kick. There’s nothing better than our shrimp po’boy with an ice cold bottle of beer.”

  “That sounds good.”

  He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to her ear. “It is.”

  Suddenly Tonya felt as if he was too close, that his body’s heat had seeped into hers and made her feel warm. He smelled of soap and clean linen. She wanted to tell him that he had invaded her personal space, which made her more than aware that something about Gage, other than his looks, excited her. He was a reminder that she was a woman who was still capable of passion.

  Unfortunately, her ex had made it difficult for her to form a relationship with a man; she did not want to become so involved that she would lose her independence, and for Tonya independence was the single most important factor in her life. Gage had suggested they hang out together, and she would, because she knew their relationship would never progress beyond friendship and a mutual respect for their shared profession.

  “What is your favorite sauce?” she asked. She felt the need to say something to make herself ignore the fact that she found his nearness slightly overwhelming.

  Gage blinked as if coming out of a trance. Standing inches from Tonya and inhaling her perfume conjured up the moments when she had sat next to him in his vehicle. Every time he opened the door and sat behind the wheel, her scent lingered until after a while it faded completely. He had tried recalling the timbre of her voice, the stunning flawlessness of her bare face, and the mature, lush curves of her body that threatened to send his libido into overdrive. He did not know what there was about the woman that intrigued him so much, but he intended to discover what it was, and that was why he had asked her to go out with him.

  “I’m partial to béarnaise. It goes well with chicken pontalba.”

  “Is that a Creole dish?” she asked.

  “Yes. It was name for the Baroness Micaela Pontalba, who earned fame for supervising the construction of the Pontalba buildings on the uptown and downtown sides of Jackson Square. One of these days I’ll make it for you, and you have to let me know if you want to put it on the menu when you open your restaurant.”

  She flashed a dimpled smile. “I’d like that.”

  Gage glanced above her at the clock and took off his apron. “I have to head out now, so we’ll talk later.”

  Tonya nodded. “Later.” She pretended interest in chopping the red bell pepper, green onions, and sprigs of fresh tarragon for crab cakes rather than watch Gage walk out. She reminded herself she had relocated to New Orleans to go into business—not fall under the spell of a man whose very presence seemed to suck the air of out of the room.

  * * *

  Gage walked into the general office to sign in for the day. He nodded to the two women who were the eyes and ears for the principal who ran his school like a four-star general. The high school had undergone several changes over the years, and the result was higher test scores and lower dropout rates. The school board called an emergency meeting and conducted a search for an administrator with strong leadership qualities. They eventually hired the former headmaster of a military school who within two years had turned Lafitte High School into a model for success.

  The principal’s secretary handed Gage a large craft envelope. “Mr. Toussaint, Dr. Carter wanted me to give this to you. He’s assigning you to Mr. Murdock’s class as a permanent teacher for the remainder of the school year. You’ll now be paid out of the regular school budget and the grant. Any after-school activities will have to be reported on the hourly professional personnel time report. Those forms are also in the envelope. If you
have any questions, then please see me. I also made up a timecard for you, so beginning tomorrow you’ll be required to punch in at eight and out at three. We’ve temporarily deactivated Mr. Murdock’s email and added your name to the school’s email list, so you’ll be able to log on to his computer using your own password.”

  She had spoken so quickly that Gage had to listen intently to catch every word. “Thank you.” He was taken aback that the district had hired him as a permanent teacher. Louis Murdock was a department head, which meant he would not only cover the man’s classes, but suspected he would have the responsibility for running the music department. And having to come in at eight would conflict with his covering for Eustace at the restaurant on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

  He left the office, nearly colliding with Dr. Carter. Although he had recently celebrated his sixty-third birthday, the West Point graduate and former career officer appeared years younger with his slender, ramrod-straight posture, lightly graying hair, and smooth nut-brown face.

  “I see Miss Gibbons gave you the envelope. The school board and the superintendent have agreed to appoint you as a permanent teacher rather than a sub. With you in Murdock’s position, you’ll be responsible for organizing the spring concert. A group email was sent to the faculty and staff that your office has been changed from the band room to Murdock’s office.”

  Gage’s impassive expression did not reveal what he was thinking at that time, and he doubted the principal would want to know. He didn’t mind stepping in and picking up the slack because of a colleague’s medical emergency, but becoming a permanent faculty member was something he hadn’t planned. If he had wanted to teach full-time, then he would have applied for a position as a full-time teacher. Eustace had asked him whether he wanted to be a chef or a musician and he had been unable to give him an answer, because at this time in his life he was willing to devote only a portion of his free time to teaching students who were seriously considering a career in music.