Mine didn’t. Rather than get into it, I went right on, reading from the list again. “He’s also going to make glazed apple slices. Don’t tell me, let me guess. That means we need an apple peeler.”

“One that can also core and slice would be perfect.” He marched down the aisle, reached to a top shelf, and produced the gizmo. “I bought one of these from Jacques right before Christmas last year so I could make my chicken breasts with slivered apples when one of my clients and his wife came to dinner. It works like a dream.”

“And…” I checked Jim’s list one last time. “A pineapple slicer. That’s for the Jamaican punch the drink folks will be making.”

“Done.” Raymond added one last device to the pile. It reminded me of a small cordless vacuum, only more compact and skinnier. He must have been reading my mind. “Easy to clean up. Very simple to use. Perfect pineapple rings every time,” he said.

And I knew that when it came to hiring help, Jim had found us a gem.

I was past the point of proud and, as the day had proved all too clearly, I was heading straight to desperation, so I wasn’t even embarrassed when I blurted out, “How often can you work?”

Raymond’s grin was infectious. “You’re open late Mondays and Thursdays. I’ll be here for sure those two nights. Need me on Saturdays?”

“I need someone who knows what a pineapple slicer looks like every day of the week.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“Yes!”

“I’ve got water aerobics on Wednesdays, and Fridays are always my night out so I’d rather not work that day. I have to get my beauty nap, you know! But except for the pesky meetings that keep getting in the way of my social life, I make my own schedule. If you need me during the day, I can probably make it. And don’t you dare thank me,” he added quickly, probably because he saw that my mouth was open and he knew I was going to thank him.

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime for me. It’s a dream come true. As a matter of fact, I checked my schedule before I came over here and I’m free and clear tomorrow. If you need some help during the day cleaning up or stocking shelves-”

“Would you? Really?” I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, and rather than have Raymond think I was some kind of weirdo, I balanced my armful of gadgets and took them to the front counter. “I can’t tell you what a wonderful help that would be.”

“Hey, I love this place. And I miss Jacques. Any idea when he’ll be coming back?”

“Soon. I hope.” The reminder put a damper on the excitement I felt at having a new helper, and a new friend. “Not that I don’t like working here or anything, but-”

“Jim told me.” Raymond patted my shoulder in a friendly sort of way. His hands were as big as frying pans and I had to brace myself against the counter or risk falling over on contact. “He says you’re not-so-good at cooking and great at everything else.”

Yeah, that sounded like Jim. He was a gem, too.

I was thinking exactly that as I loaded my cargo of gadgets into a shopping bag and gave Raymond some last-minute instructions about the cash register and locking up. While I was at it, I’d noticed earlier that our supply of soup mixes was dwindling. I didn’t remember selling any, but, hey, I was willing to chalk that up to a case of trying to do too many things at the same time. I told Raymond where the extras were kept and asked him to please restock the shelves, and I’d already hoisted my shopping bag into one hand when the front bell rang again.

I wasn’t worried. Très Bonne Cuisine was in good hands.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from freezing in my tracks when I saw who stepped into the shop.

“Hello, Annie.”

Tonight, Peter was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt the color of the paprika in little containers on our herb and seasoning shelf. He glanced at the bag I was carrying. “You’re leaving.”

“I’ve got to get to Bellywasher’s for a cooking class. Raymond will take care of you.” I motioned toward Raymond, who was just coming up the aisle from the back office where he’d gotten one of our white aprons and was tying it around his back. On him, the apron looked as if it came straight from the store’s Kids Cook section.

“Oh, that’s OK.” Peter barely looked at Raymond before he turned his attention back to me. He stepped toward the front counter. Since I was standing directly between it and him and the displays all around us made it impossible to get by without getting too close, I had no choice but to step back. “I just need a couple of things,” he said. “I won’t keep you long.”

I wanted to say, You won’t keep me at all since I’m leaving, but I remembered what Eve had said last time Tyler came to Bellywasher’s. Paying customers were paying customers and as caretaker of his establishment, I had an obligation to Monsieur Lavoie to treat everyone who walked through the door with respect. Even a weasel like Peter.

I motioned to Raymond that I’d take care of things and watched as his eyebrows rose in an expression that clearly said he realized I knew Peter-and that he couldn’t wait until we were alone so we could dish the dirt.

I ducked back behind the counter and from there, I saw that Raymond was straightening the shelves of stainless-clad cookware that was not so far away that he couldn’t hear exactly what was going on.

“I didn’t realize you were into cooking,” I said, watching as Peter took a quick look around. “Is it like poker, another new hobby?”

“Oh, you know how it is.” Peter stepped closer. “Everybody cooks.” His eyes lit. “Everybody but you. What are you doing here, Annie? The most cooking you ever did was grabbing a box of Hamburger Helper and-”

“Ancient history.” It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my cooking skills, or my lack of them. It was just that I didn’t need to be reminded. Not by Peter, anyway. And not in front of Raymond. I sloughed off his comments with a laugh and a lift of my shoulders. “You learned to play poker. I learned to cook.”

“Amazing.” He said it in a way that made me feel a little queasy. Like he really meant it. Like he was impressed.

I pretended to fiddle with the cash register.

“But what happened to the restaurant?”

Peter’s question snapped me back. “Bellywasher’s?” He looked at me with those melting brown eyes of his. “You told me you were the business manager there.”

“I am the business manager there. And I’m the business manager here. It’s a long story.”

“And again, I say, amazing. You’re…” Peter took a step closer to the counter. Call it instinct. Even though there was a slab of polished granite between us, I took a step back. “You’re like a different person,” he said. “You’re so accomplished. So professional.”

“Which means I wasn’t accomplished and professional before.”

“Not what I meant.”

“What you said.” There was a time this would have cut me to the quick. Now, I simply cocked my head and stared at him, expecting him to back down not because he had to, but because it was my due.

It was.

He did.

And somewhere deep down inside, I actually felt a little sorry for him. “I’ve got to get going,” I said, stepping to my right so that I could move around to the front of the counter. “We’ve got a cooking class at Belly-washer’s tonight, and-”

“I won’t be another minute.” Peter grabbed a pig-shaped wooden cutting board from a nearby shelf and plunked it on the counter. From another display near the front window, this one intended to attract mothers and grandmothers for those last-minute impulse buys, he reached for a tube of pink cake icing. As if that wasn’t enough, he added two boxes of the red, white, and blue citronella candles I’d put out in honor of the upcoming Fourth of July holiday.

“That ought to do it,” he said.

I look at the disparate assortment. “You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t need anything else?”