I just don’t understand small-town mentality,” Angel complained to her mother as they cooked. “Why these people don’t flock to a French restaurant is beyond me. Don’t they realize the uniqueness? Why, how many small towns do you know of that have French restaurants?”
“Maybe it’s too much of an oddity to them, hon.” Her mother stood at the stove, stirring a honey-colored sauce. “Maybe you need to adjust the menu.”
“I’ve already stopped serving rouget—”
Her mother smiled. “Nine Cloud people couldn’t seem to adapt to whole red mullet staring up at them from their plates—”
“Wonder why?” Angel laughed. “You’d think rednecks would like red fish.”
“Rednecks?”
Angel sighed. “I was joking. Nine Cloud has lots of sharp people. Only some of them are hicks.” She was thinking of some of the church members. But they were sweet hicks, she had to admit. “And forget the gigot d’agneau with herbes de Provence. That went off the menu after the first month.”
“Lamb is a little wild tasting, if I do say so myself.”
Angel giggled. “I’ve got a secret.”
“You don’t like it either?” Her mother’s eyes danced in merriment.
Angel shook her head no. “But I wanted it on the menu because it sounded sophisticated.”
Her mother laughed heartily. “Well, at least the sandwiches sell well.”
“Those sandwiches are the only thing keeping this ship afloat. But I don’t know for how long.”
Angel’s eyes misted over, but she willed herself not to let the tears fall. She’d been open since June—for two months. If business didn’t pick up soon, she might have to close Rue de France. And she couldn’t bear the thought.
Late that afternoon, Angel sat at a table in the dining room, doing office work. She glanced out the window and noted the awning over White’s Hardware Store. It had another tear in it, compliments of last night’s rainstorm and high winds. Maybe now, Mr. White would see the need to replace it.
“Why can’t you people see the need for progress?” she said through gritted teeth.
She spotted the peeling paint above the awning. “Decrepit. Antiquated.” She couldn’t think of any more adjectives. In desperate need of repair.
“Repair?” Into her mind flashed a picture of the pastor at church. Last Sunday, Pastor Kyle had announced he wanted the congregation to take on a different kind of project. He wanted their church to rebuild a destitute family’s house. And he was proposing to do it in a short amount of time with the help of lots of workers. He had put out a heart-stirring plea for volunteers to sign up.
She would like to help. But there were only so many hours in the day. Rue de France consumed all her time except for the hours she managed to squeeze out to be with Cyril. She smiled at that thought.
“The church rebuilding project? My plate’s too full for that.”