Page 3 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

This is likely true. I’m new to the single mom gig and, as it is, I stitch together trustworthy childcare with a very thin piece of thread. I don’t trust Leonie in Molly’s care, but can I depend on her to keep my business from burning down? That almost happened once, well, before I took ownership.

“I’ll let you know,” I reply.

Roxanne passes me the menu, apparently having satisfied her curiosity that nothing has changed. “I’ll just take a coffee with cream and sugar.”

Molly whispers, “Coffee Loft has better coffee.”

I elbow her. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“Since when do you care about the truth?”

“It’s the guiding principle for the Pest Digest.”

I grunt. “Emphasis onpest.”

Ignoring my comment, yet embodying it, she asks, “What do you think about adding cream brool to the menu?”

“What is cream brool?” I ask while fetching Mr. Soto his post-milkshake ice water. He says the dairy makes him congested, yet he continues to come back for more.

“Cream brool. The dessert,” Molly says.

Frowning, I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

Roxanne shrugs. A fan of sweets, Mr. Soto leans in, listening intently.

Face scrunched up like we’re a bunch of fools, Molly says, “Don’t be silly. Of course you’ve heard of it. It’s a pudding or custard or something like that. The top gets burned with a torch, like in those fancy French restaurants in New Orleans.”

“This isn’t a fancy French restaurant.”

“But you’re French.”

“Hardly.” I yawn. I pour myself a sweet tea and drizzle in some honey.

“I had that once,” Roxanne says, snapping her gum.

“Cream brool, new menu item,” Molly says with a flourish.

Brow crinkling as if I’m translating the Lost Southern Sea Scroll, I ask, “Do you mean crème brûlée?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s brool.”

“That doesn’t sound too appetizing.” Roxanne wrinkles her nose.

The real reason I haven’t changed the menu this decade is because I cannot afford it. In fact, I’m the one who started the rumor that the Pappadeaux Seafood Fondeux gave an out-of-towner food poisoning. Both are big fibs, but fancy cheese prices went up and they don’t fit in my wholesale order budget, so I had to cleverly eighty-six it.

I shoo Molly toward the customer side of the counter. “Do you want your pancakes now?”

Please say later.

“I’ll take a cream brool.”

I shake my head.

Roxanne gets to her feet, coffee in hand. She and an accomplice stole the giant rotating root beer mug from the Tickle property not long ago. In much the same way that I don’t trust Molly with information, I keep a careful eye on Roxanne’s sticky fingers.

“The coffee mugs stay here.”

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