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hands together with glee.
     “And I’ve heard Shelley Giusti will be at the festival. We met in a pastry chef class
     a million years ago. I was in love with her of course, but she married some health
     nut as soon as we graduated. Even back then, she was a true sorceress with desserts.”
    “Was she your first crush?” Olivia asked. Michel was constantly falling in and out
     of love.
    “First
love
. And if she looks anything like her photo on the jacket flap of her new cookbook,
Decadence
,
then she has aged
very
well. I wonder if she’ll remember all the good times we shared. We used to meet for
     drinks after class and talk about everything and anything. I remember how she’d throw
     her head back when she laughed . . .” Michel trailed off, a dreamy look entering his
     eyes.
    Olivia was all too familiar with the signs that he was about to embark on a new infatuation.
     “Does this mean that you’re not going to pursue Laurel anymore? I thought she was
     the butter to your grits, the salsa to your tortilla chips, the vanilla ice cream
     to your apple strudel?”
    “Stop it! Enough with the food clichés,” Michel pleaded. “Part of me will always care
     for Laurel. She is an angel among women and her husband isn’t worthy of her, but she
     doesn’t see me as a potential lover. She never will.”
    Putting a hand on Michel’s shoulder, Olivia spoke with rare tenderness. “I don’t know
     why you chase people who aren’t free to love you, but you deserve someone to call
     your own. You’re a fine man, Michel. You could make the right woman very happy.”
    Moved by her words, Michel simply nodded.
    Olivia took the piece of paper from his hand and flattened it on the nearest countertop.
     “I’ll speak to this producer. I want certain things in writing before a film crew
     invades my restaurant.”
    Michel knew that his employer was wary of the media, regardless of what form it took.
    “I know you’re doing this for me,” he murmured quietly. “Not for the business. It
     doesn’t need the Foodie Network. I do.”
    His eyes grew moist and for a moment it looked like he might throw his arms around
     Olivia, but he recognized that she wouldn’t welcome a grandiose display of emotion.
    He wiped his eyes with the cuff of his chef’s jacket and cleared his throat. “Thank
     you,” he said simply. And then, unable to resist a bit of theatricality, added, “Everything
     you said to me about love is true. I’m getting older. It’s time for me to have a grown-up
     relationship. It’s time for me to be happy. And it’s time for you to be happy too.”
    Olivia looked up sharply.
    “Oh, yes,” Michel continued softly. “You’ve had enough loneliness to last two lifetimes.
     Let the past go.”
    Her fingertips moved to where the starfish pendant was concealed beneath the fabric
     of her dress. Michel knew the history of the necklace. He knew that Olivia’s mother
     had died during a hurricane and that the loss still haunted her.
    Michel grabbed her gently by the wrist, preventing her from making contact with the
     starfish. “You don’t need that anymore. You have a new family. Me, your writer friends,
     Dixie, Rawlings.”
    Olivia gave Michel a small, grateful smile, squeezed his hand once, and then let it
     go. After calling Haviland, who’d been waiting for her signal by the back door, she
     disappeared into the sanctuary of her tiny office.
    Soon she heard Michel begin to hum a tune in a robust and merry tenor. The sous-chefs
     had obviously relaxed and the rhythms of the kitchen resumed. Olivia could once again
     hear The Boot Top’s unique melody: the hiss of steam, the blades of knives kissing
     the wood cutting board, the entwining of Spanish, French, and North Carolina accents.
    Olivia sighed in contentment. This was the music of her here and now. And it was beautiful.

Chapter 3
    A town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps
     that surround it.
    —H