Page 30 of Feel It in the Air

We ride in silence for a moment, the hum of the engine and gear shifts all the soundtrack we need. Only, I’m on borrowed time. And there’s so much I want to know. So much I want to ask. To the point I don’t even know where to start.

“Tell me about Papa Duck’s,” I say, glancing over at her.

“Oh boy, how much time you got?”

“All night.”

I smile, meaning it. I’ll find us a place to park and spend all night hanging on her every word.

“My grandfather Remy loves food. And loves to experiment with food. There are all sorts of old family stories about how he was always playing with his food and coming up with crazy combinations. It’s even apparently how he wooed my grandmother from another man—via his courtbouillon. He joined the army straight out of high school as a way to support my grandmother, since her father said they couldn’t get married until he had a job. Once his unit discovered he could cook, that’s the job they gave him. When he got out of the army, they opened up a little place in the same neighborhood they grew up in, and that’s where Papa Duck’s has been ever since.”

“And the name? Where does it come from?”

I do an extra lap around the center of town, delaying the drive out to the old plantation site. I want as much time as I can get with Margeaux. To hear as many of her stories as I can coax out of her. Here’s hoping she doesn’t notice that we’ve passed the town Civil War monument more than once now.

Shaking her head, she lets out a long breath. “Childhood nickname. As the story goes, he was on the playground and they were playing duck, duck, goose. And he was ‘it,’ or whatever it’s called when it’s your turn to tap people on the head. I should point out, his parents didn’t speak English very well, so Cajun French was what he spoke at home, and then English at school. So, there he is, playing this game, and he forgot the word goose. So little Remy simply shouted papère canard!”

Margeaux throws up jazz hands, as if the punchline of papère canard needed any extra flair. I choke out a laugh, gripping the steering wheel tighter so that I don’t run us off the road. Last thing I need is for us to crash.

“That is not the real story, is it?”

“Oh, it sure is,” she assures me. “Papère canard. Papa Duck. After that game, that’s all anyone would call him, and the name stuck. So of course, what else would you name your restaurant?”

“Nothing—that’s clearly the only choice.”

Soothing, comfortable silence falls between us, the last trickle of her laugh still hanging in the air. I start to slide my hand over to grab hers, then stop. Gripping the gear shifter instead, I focus on the road, on the sound of tires, on anything other than wanting to be closer to her. That line is still there. The line I so desperately want to cross. The one that according to my brothers isn’t as big of a deal as I’ve made it out to be. Not that I’ve verified that with HR.

Or that Margeaux wants anything more.

“Gus?”

“Hmmm?”

“That’s like the third time we’ve driven past the library.”

Her impish smile is back, and she doesn’t bother to hide it as she places her hand over mine on the gear shifter. Sparks fly as her hand meets mine, and I let out a groan, unable to hold back.

“Noticed that, huh?”

“The large, bright-white, antebellum building with roman columns labeled library? Yes, yes I did, Gus.” She laughs.

“This is what I get for hanging out with a girl who has both an MBA and a law degree,” I quip.

“Not sure what that has to do with it. Pretty sure a kindergartner would notice that.”

I glare at her, shifting into the next gear and revving the engine. The car takes off down the straightaway out of the center of town. Margeaux is thrown back into her seat, a gasp escaping. She grabs ahold of my arm, the electricity in the air humming right along with the engine as we race toward Hayes House.

Minutes later, we’re closing in on the old plantation house, my classic car hugging each curve of the old dirt road like it was made for it. I hate the idea of being this close to the end of the night, but the feel of Margeaux’s hand still clasped around my arm as I shift is a rush all on its own. The reason I bought this car all those years ago. And more than enough of an excuse to try and get her back into this car again.

I slow down as we approach the massive old mansion, not wanting to disturb anyone who may already be asleep. It’s been years since I’ve been over here, so I’m not entirely sure how many people we have in residence these days, especially during this time of year, but I know that it’s more than just Margeaux, Marisela, and Alex. A lot more.

Putting the car in park, I kill the engine, wondering what to do next. It’s probably not polite to invite myself up, but holding her hostage here in the car doesn’t seem fair either. All I know is that I don’t want this to end. Shit, I should have taken her back to my place. There’s still time, and it’s not that far—just on the other side of the property. All I need to do is⁠—

“Thank you for driving me,” Margeaux says, opening her door and getting out.

Shit…

Following her lead, I tumble out of the car, jogging to catch up. “So, ummm, have we told you the history of Hayes House?” I ask nervously, trying desperately to delay the inevitable.