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Burke chuckled. “I like her already.”
“Most people do. She taught me how to make pâte à choux when I was ten. I still use that pastry recipe for my cream puffs at the Choux. That—and the fact that my dad called my mom his petit chou—is how we named the restaurant.”
“Mmmm. I love those cream puffs. Yours are some of the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“I’ll tell her that you said so.”
Burke leaned against the counter as Gabe pulled out eggs, ham, and vegetables for omelets. “I didn’t realize that your mother came from Montreal.”
“She did. She’d come to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and asked a ‘handsome police officer’ for directions. Her English was not so good, and she was so frustrated that she started to cry. But then he spoke French to her, helped her find what she was looking for, then asked her out for dinner. She said that his French was so heavily Cajun that she had trouble understanding him. But they managed, apparently. It was love at first sight.”
“Your dad told me that she’d come for Mardi Gras and stayed for love. He loved her so much, Gabe. He was destroyed when she died. I can’t believe that there was ever another woman for him, as long as she was breathing.”
“I know.” Gabe focused on whipping the eggs for the omelets. Keeping his hands busy had always been his go-to method for handling stress. “I know that there’s another explanation.”
“And we won’t rest until we find it.”
And then Gabe remembered the question he hadn’t yet asked. Second son. Gabe flinched, then stared at the omelet pan. “Does Cicely Morrow have a son? Molly didn’t say.”
Burke hesitated. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. Let me finish my coffee and I’ll look up the woman myself.”
