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It was all so messed up. Rosalie was grateful and relieved she’d raise her baby away from all that, in a home that would be filled with love, not drama.
“A boy needs a father,” her great-aunt had insisted.
“It’s impossible,” Rosalie replied with equal firmness. “The father of my baby is...”
Handsome. Darkly sexy. Powerful.
Images of Alex Falconeri flooded through her.
Resolutely, she pushed away the memory, finishing, “He’s newly bereaved and not interested in raising a child.”
“Still, he has responsibilities.”
“I don’t want his money,” Rosalie replied, annoyed.
“Why?” Her great-aunt’s dark eyes narrowed. “As a receptionist, do you make such a fortune?”
“No,” Rosalie had admitted, then added reluctantly, “I have my parents’ life insurance. And if I sell my family’s land...”
“Sell your land?” Odette had been scandalized. “I never approved of my niece marrying an American farmer, but she spoke of the land with pride. Your father’s family farmed it for generations. Just as this restaurant was started by my grandpère.” She’d looked around the bustling tables of L’Omeletterie. “One should not cast aside a family legacy lightly.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m not.” A lump lifted in Rosalie’s throat. “But—the farm’s gone, Tatie. My parents are dead. I can never go back. I must accept that.”
Her great-aunt’s voice had trembled. “Rosalie—”
“I only have a few days before I go back to California. Why don’t I help you in the restaurant?”
Rosalie couldn’t have chosen a better way to distract Odette. Her great-aunt’s face had lit up, for the busy tourist season was in full swing. And so Rosalie had spent the last two days clearing up dishes and chatting with customers in English and French.
She was almost regretful that today would be her last day, since tomorrow she must return to Venice, and take her ticketed flight back to San Francisco.
Then decisions would need to be made. Because she obviously could not raise a crying baby in a tiny two-bedroom apartment with three roommates. And could Rosalie really keep working as a receptionist after her baby was born, when the cost of childcare would be more than her actual salary?
Her parents’ life insurance was not much, and would not last, even if she felt comfortable about spending it, which she didn’t. But could she really sell her family’s acres to the highest bidder?
As the tourists joyfully screeched their song about baseball across the restaurant, Rosalie blinked, relieved to be pulled from her thoughts. It was late, and all the tables had become empty but one. A group of rowdy American tourists was cheering and drunkenly singing, their arms looped around each other’s shoulders. Their beloved team had soundly beaten some bitter rival. They were all gray haired and well past middle age, but their joie de vivre and energy was greater than most college students had. Watching them from across the restaurant, Rosalie couldn’t stop smiling, no matter what her aunt said.
“Make them stop, ma petite,” Odette whispered to her in French, her wrinkled face irritated.
“Why?” Rosalie gave a low laugh, looking around the darkened restaurant. The day-trippers from Paris had already departed on the last shuttle, leaving the island quiet, with only a few tourists remaining. The hotels on Mont-Saint-Michel were tiny, with just a few hotel rooms scattered across the steep island. “There’s no one left here to bother.”
“They’re bothering me.” Her great-aunt gave an expressive sniff. “It’s past ten. The good heaven knows they should be headed to their beds. Do they expect me to cart them up the hill in a wheelbarrow?”
“I’ll tell them to leave.”
“Good.”
But going over to the rowdy table, Rosalie impulsively joined them in the chorus, causing the tourists to shout their appreciation.
“Congratulations on your game, guys,” she said in English.
“You’re American,” one of the women exclaimed. “What are you doing in Mont-Saint-Michel?”
“My great-aunt owns this restaurant.” Taking the empty glasses of kir Normands and putting them on her tray, Rosalie gently set down the bill.
“I’ve never had such a good omelet!” a man said, patting his belly.
“I can see why they’re so famous,” another chimed in. “Thirty euros, but worth it!”
