“All right, I’ll open it.” The paper was thick, heavy, and no doubt expensive. By the shape I figured it could be an invitation. I managed to get it open without ripping the envelope too much and withdrew the card inside.

It was indeed an invitation—to the Friends of the Library winter gala at River Hill next Tuesday.

TWO

Fifteen minutes after Diesel and I bade good-bye to the last board member, we got in the car and headed for the town square and my dear friend Helen Louise Brady’s French patisserie. After the rancor and tension of the board meeting, Diesel and I both needed to relax. Plus, I hadn’t seen Helen Louise in three days, and I missed her even though we talked on the phone daily.

Diesel chirped at me when I told him our destination. He loved Helen Louise, and the adoration was mutual. She always made a fuss over my cat, and if anyone in her establishment dared object to his presence, she informed the offender not to let the door hit him on his way out.

I pulled the car into a slot right in front of the bakery. Diesel hopped out over me as soon as I opened the door, eager to see his friend and whatever tidbits she would offer.

Even before we stepped inside, I felt my mouth watering from the appetizing smells that emanated from the bakery. Brioches, croissants, gâteaux, éclairs—the combination of these and more made my early dinner a rapidly fading memory. Perhaps I’d have a small piece of Helen Louise’s sumptuous gâteau au chocolat, a particular weakness of mine.

Helen Louise greeted me from behind the counter, and the thought of chocolate cake receded. There stood the real attraction. Rake thin and nearly six feet tall, Helen Louise wore her dark, luxuriant hair in a short bob. The curls framed blue eyes that sparkled with fierce intelligence and wicked humor, a mouth that often quirked in amusement, and a shapely nose that wrinkled adorably when she laughed.

She came around the counter as Diesel and I approached, and we shared a hug and a brief kiss.

“Missed you.” Helen Louise’s words shimmered softly in the air between us, and I pulled her close again for a longer kiss.

Diesel warbled and inserted himself between us, and we broke apart, laughing.

Helen Louise grinned at me as she bent to stroke my incorrigible feline’s head and neck. “We could never forget you, mon brave. Tu es un chat très formidable.”

After ten years in Paris learning her art, she often lapsed into French. Diesel warbled at her as if he understood her.

“He’s not formidable, just shameless.” I, too, stroked Diesel’s head, and my hand brushed against Helen Louise’s. We smiled at each other.

Diesel butted his head against my thigh, then did the same to Helen Louise. “Someone expects a treat, I think.” I shook my head.

Helen Louise laughed. “Go have a seat, and I’ll bring you both something très délicieux.”