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returning the can to its bag and putting the supplies on the floor behind her seat. One glance at the rearview mirror showed Ward exiting the store. Stomach churning, Meredith started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.
    “Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so dense as to think he was flirting with me for any reason other than wanting my business?”
    The rain slapped the windshield all the way back to the house, doing nothing to improve her mood. She sat for a moment after parking under the protection of the carport.
    He probably hadn’t seen her as anything more than a potential client. How many people had she sucked up to in the past, believing they could potentially become clients? But she couldn’t deny that while the delusion lasted, she had felt the stirrings of attraction toward him.
    Maybe, just maybe, she was finally recovering from her eight-year affliction—the affliction that went by the name Major O’Hara.
    ***
    Cars—mostly expensive, foreign models—lined the street of the upscale subdivision. Major parked a few houses down from the Guidrys’, pulled his coat collar up, and ran through the rain to the cover of their wide, wraparound porch.
    He reached the front steps at the same time as a pair of other guests—familiar looking and smart enough to be carrying a huge black and red umbrella. One of Major’s part-time staff opened the door and grinned at him, dressed in the standard black pants and white tuxedo shirt all servers at B-G events wore.
    Major stepped aside for the woman to enter first. As she passed, the small dog draped across her arm snapped and growled at him. Behind her, folding the umbrella, the man rolled his eyes and sighed—and Major finally recognized him. Gus McCord, Bonneterre’s new mayor. Major hadn’t realized how short the man was. He always looked much taller on TV.
    When the mayor drew even with Major, he extended his right hand. “Sorry about the dog. She can’t go anywhere without that thing. You look familiar, but I can’t place you.”
    “Major O’Hara, sir.” Major returned the politician’s firm, brief grip.
    The quick processing of Major’s name registered in Mayor McCord’s brown eyes. “You played football with my son at ULB.”
    Major reined in his surprise. “Yes, sir. He was a couple years ahead of me.”
    “And now you’re the most popular chef in Beausoleil Parish—if not all of Louisiana.” Mr. McCord handed his dripping umbrella to the doorman.
    Maybe Major shouldn’t have voted for the other guy last fall. “Mr. and Mrs. Guidry would be pleased to hear you say so.”
    “I’ll be sure to tell them, then.” Mr. McCord motioned Major to enter ahead of him.
    Major stopped just inside the door, awestruck. He didn’t know much about architecture, but this house reminded him of the big plantation houses down on the river he’d seen on school fieldtrips. The dark-wood-floored entryway echoed with a hum of voices coming from all around. To his left, the walnut and green library featured a large, round table laden with a display of fruit, guests hovering around it like hummingbirds in a flower garden.
    For a moment, professional jealousy reared up in his chest. Why hadn’t they asked him to cater? Then, before the envy could take full root, he spotted Maggie Babineaux, Mairee Guidry’s sister—the caterer who’d taught Major more about food service than they’d ever imagined teaching in culinary school. She waved at him but didn’t break away from her conversation. He waved in return.
    To his right, circulating around the twenty-person dining table piled high with exquisite displays of pastries, he recognized a few people—the mayor’s wife and her little dog, the state senator for Beausoleil Parish, the pastor of Bonneterre Chapel ... who motioned Major into the room.
    “We’ve missed you the last couple of Sundays.” Pastor Kinnard shifted his plate and extended his right hand.
    Major smiled and shook hands with him.