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Momma?” She tried sounding chipper.
    Who was she kidding? She was the next Keeper of Fleur de Lis. The title had ruled her life since the day she was born. Was it a pipe dream to think she could break free of a hundred plus-years of family tradition encoded in her DNA? Why did legacy trump logic in a place where sweet tea ran more freely than the Mississippi River? Had no one but her ever considered the fact that just maybe she wasn’t the person in the family best suited for the job?
    “Well, you know how much I dislike a room with furniture plastered against all the walls—Branna, if you wanted to change the furniture at home in your room, why didn’t you say so. You didn’t need to do all this to make a statement or get my attention. I do value your opinion.”
    Little had changed in a hundred years at Fleur de Lis. Not only in the bedrooms, all the rooms, including the office where she spent many waking hours. Afternoon sunlight still streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and cast a warm glow on the ivory Aubusson rug. Matching Hepplewhite wingback chairs still flanked the fireplace. The antique clock on the mantel chimed every hour. Only one change in the décor of that room suggested modern times—a flattop LCD monitor. Her life, like the office, had been structured and well planned.
    The teaching job offered a ticket to a whole new life. At least for a little while. And a breather from the humiliation Steven caused.
    “Momma, let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work. We’ve only got a few hours before you and daddy head home.”

Chapter 5
    Friday morning, Branna glanced at the salad ingredients on the counter. “Potluck dinners,” she mused. “Jello salads and mystery food.”
    Every potluck she had ever attended offered at least one mystery—a casserole with unidentifiable ingredients masked by a cap of toasted breadcrumbs. Maybe things in Lakeview were different from Bayou Petite, the little town closest to home. She could hope.
    She’d eaten her share of mystery food at church dinners and other community events, but other eating-out opportunities rarely happened. Fast food chains hadn’t invaded Bayou Petite until several years ago. Before, she had to travel twenty minutes to Picayune for a drive-through experience, which held little appeal after growing up with Greta’s mouth-watering cooking. Any white-linen dining event was still a special treat.
    With Tab Benoit belting out Jambalaya on the stereo, she sang along and tossed lettuce and spinach with toasted pecans. Next, she sprinkled crumbled gorgonzola cheese on top for color and flavor, which made her mouth water. The salad always tasted better than how it looked in the bowl. She hoped others would enjoy it. First impressions counted, and she wanted to put her best foot forward at the faculty potluck.
    She finished off the salad creation by layering thin slices of strawberries—courtesy of Lakeland, Florida, the strawberry capitol—then she covered the large wooden bowl with plastic wrap. At the party, she’d toss the mixture with her special balsamic vinaigrette. The vinegar had been barrel-aged for twenty years. On the rare occasions when Greta allowed her to cook, she used only the best ingredients, especially for guests and strangers.
    After placing the salad and bottle of dressing into a sturdy cardboard box, she added wooden “claws” for serving, then nervously hurried to the bedroom for one last check in the cheval mirror, the one her parents brought from Fleur de Lis, and completed a final once-over of her reflection.
    Was she appropriately dressed for a faculty potluck? Did designer jeans and a blouse say casual, but smart? Hopefully. She hated the annoying jitterbug in her stomach. This wasn’t an audition. She already had a signed contract for the job. The intention of tonight’s event was fun.
    But she hadn’t done fun very well for many months, maybe years. “Organize and execute” were easier. Second nature