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Of all the applicants, and there were many, I chose six lovely young people from the United States. I picked them because I liked the feel of them and the complexity of their diverse characters. What I didn’t know was that I was putting together one of the grandest menus I’ve ever created.
Because it became apparent to me very quickly that that was what they were: a feast. Each of them a course in the most delicious dinner you could imagine.
Thea: First Course, theapéritif, the little bites designed to set the purpose for the entire meal. She was from the middle of Nowheresville, USA, as she called it, and yet she wanted to passionately bake croissant and baguette, as if she had a French soul. In her personal life, she prefers to take small steps, but those she takes capture one’s attention.
Dean: Second Course, theentrée, the appetizer created to be the entry point into the meal, the best of which feels like a dream when it caresses your taste buds. He has so many ideas swirling in his head that he’s still mastering what he truly wants to share on the grand stage of life.
Brooke: Third Course, theplat, the main course invented with flourish to leave its signature in one’s memory for years to come. She’s always wanted to be driving the show, making a grand impression, but that makes her unable to sometimes enjoy the little things that fulfill one’s heart.
Sawyer: Fourth Course, the salad, a refined tradition few today understand or give its due, which cleanses the palate for more inspiration to come. He’s a throwback to a bygone era whose complexity lies under the surface, an artist at heart afraid to unleash his own brilliance.
Madison: Fifth Course, the cheese plate, another part of the meal not everyone finds suitable or pleasing, but which can change the digestion of the meal. She embodies so many brilliant strong flavors that she often cultivates a barrier to others, not believing everyone wants her or understands her.
Kyle: Sixth Course, the dessert, which is an indulgence and a delicious treat all its own, especially when it is savored and not rushed. He’s the classic golden boy, appearing too perfect at times, all the while hiding the rich layers he holds inside himself.
What I have never told them is that I was the fish course, the only course served either before the main course or becoming one itself depending on the depth of its flavor and ingredients. You see, I was adrift at sea myself, delicate in flavor, unable to hold my own place in the feast of life, the current taking me where it would.
Yet for that one magical year, we all grew more confident in what we brought to one another’s lives. We all learned that people could become family even though they are not related by blood.
But then our time together ended. We went back to our respective lives, changed, yes, and while we remained in touch, the inroads we’d made in becoming the perfect feast began to slip away.
I did not realize how much of an echo of my old self I’d become, rather like the shell of a cicada, a ghost of my youth—the young woman who was brave and unstoppable even in the midst of great betrayal and challenge.
Now such betrayal and challenge has darkened my door yet again, threatening everything I hold dear. For the second time, I have called upon my Courses. This time because they are family.
And so the Courses are coming back to help me, and we will once again create the perfect feast together.
I hope.
* * *
Chapter One
Paris was a city full of what could have beens.
What could have been if ten years ago she’d stayed instead of returning to her hometown of Nowheresville, USA? What could have been if she’d gone for it instead of playing it safe?
There was no way of knowing, but this time Thea Rogers was determined to have it all.
Even if she was a sour mixture of exhaustion, worry, and fear sitting awkwardly alone at her favorite old haunt, Café Fitzy, decked out in wrinkled travel clothes and glaringly white tennis shoes with her outdated blue suitcase jammed next to her tiny corner table.
The August sun was beating down on her, keeping her skin damp with sweat, a constant state since she’d landed at CDG airport and taken the maze-like public transportation nightmare jammed with other grumpy, rumpled passengers. After the plane from Des Moines, Iowa, to Chicago and then on to Paris, she’d had to navigate who-knew-how-many Métro transits to make it to the heart of Saint-Germain.
The hour and a half transit had been a nightmare, and dragging her suitcase while needing to pee had been agony, until she’d broken down and stopped at her old favorite café for a coffee so she could use the bathroom. If the waiter ever gave her the time of day and took her order. She didn’t see Antoine, the owner, who used to be a friend, and her chest grew tight. She could have used a friendly face right now.
Maybe it was the jet lag, lack of sleep, or the worry coiled up inside of her, but she was so sensitive, she swore everyone was staring at her as she sat there. The chic Parisian women smoking gracefully as they conversed in sultry French had their eyebrows raised her way, as if they were hoping she would leave. She could all hear them thinking that she was taking up space. Totally gauche. A rutabaga in a sea of exotic fruits.
If only they knew she’d once lived in this neighborhood and thought of it as her own. Forget that she’d arrived in a purple jumper with a white shirt boasting a Peter Pan collar. Because she’d thought it was coolest thing she could arrive in Paris wearing.
For that one magical year, she’d stretched her wings, but they’d been made of spun sugar, and she’d let them dissolve after returning home, where she’d slid into a routine that was as regular as it was boring.
Then, two days ago, her best friend and former roommate from Paris had called her. She’d been at the bakery where she worked, putting freshly proofed croissants in the oven.
Brooke hadn’t wasted time with any preliminaries.
“Thea!” she’d cried, her voice charged with emotion. “Nanine was rushed to the hospital after a heart attack.”
The bread pan had slipped from her hand, falling to the floor.
