Fleur De Lies by Maddy Hunter Page A

flower?”
    “Yup. It’s either a lily or an iris, stylized up the wazoo. The French call it a fleur-de-lis. We’re supposed to see them everywhere over here—on flags, coats of arms, postage stamps. I think at one time it was the symbol for the French monarchy.”
    “How come one of the petals is broken?”
    Woody shrugged. “Beats me. But that’s what makes it special. It’s not perfect. The jeweler put a daring spin on an old theme.”
    “Look at it, Emily.” She twisted his hand around to show me. “Idn’t it just the purdiest thing?”
    I nodded. “Very eye-catching.”
    “Fourteen carat?” asked Krystal.
    “Gold? Not on your life. It’s solid brass.” He rapped it on the edge of the table. “Gold is for sissies. Real men wear brass.”
    “Is it a family heirloom or somethin’?”
    “Yup. Been in my family as long as I can remember. I’ll hand it down to Cal when I’m gone.”
    Patrice arrived with my breakfast before Krystal could attempt another sales pitch.
    “That looks pretty tasty,” Woody commented as he eyed my plate. “What is it?”
    “ L’omlette de jambon et de legume avec le raifort a infuse la sauce ,” said Patrice as he freshened Woody’s coffee and poured a cup for Krystal.
    Woody nodded. “What is it in English?”
    “Ham and vegetable omelet with horseradish-infused sauce,” Patrice translated.
    “Sounds good. That’s what I’ll have. I could do with a good ole American breakfast.”
    “Make that two,” said Krystal as she perused the sumptuously fluffy creation before me.
    “ D’accord .” Patrice scribbled the orders on his pad before whisking himself off to the kitchen again.
    “I can’t handle the buffet this morning,” Krystal complained. “Too many men waiting to ogle me.”
    “Could be the mascara,” I said as I poured a ramekin of what looked like ketchup over my omelet. “Maybe you should try something less transformational.”
    “So, where’s the bus taking us this morning?” asked Woody as I savored the flavorful herbs of the most appetizing omelet that had ever occupied my mouth.
    “Someplace that begins with an E,” said Krystal. “Which reminds me.” She dug a whole bottle of jumbo softgels out of her totebag and plunked it on the table. “You wanna try one of my supplements, hon?” She unscrewed the cap and offered one to Woody. “I guarantee it’ll work better than those little weenie pills you got with you.”
    “Hell. Why not?” He plopped it into his mouth and downed it with a gulp of coffee.
    “I don’t imagine you’ll be needin’ one, Emily. Yankee women aren’t known for their delicate constitutions.” She downed one herself before tossing her hair back over her shoulder and fanning her face. “This mornin’ sun is an absolute killer. I’m about to burn up.”
    I waved my fork in several directions. “Lots of empty tables in the shade,” I said hopefully.
    “Change places with me,” urged Woody as he got to his feet. “Shoot, I haven’t been hot since the North African campaign in ’42.”
    Krystal grabbed her tote and slid over onto his chair. “So … what was happenin’ in ’42 that sent you to Africa, hon?”
    She’d obviously bypassed the war museum in Arromanches.
    “Were you huntin’ big game? Euw ! Did you get to shoot one of those elephant guns? I would kill to pull the trigger on one of those puppies.”
    The dining room started filling up as Woody launched into a detailed history of Axis invasions, Allied strategies, and the best World War II movies available on Netflix. As I devoured my omelet, an army of waiters flew past our table, some wielding beverage carafes and order pads, others carrying chafing dishes of hot food to the central serving station. The noise level increased. The wait staff quickened their steps. By the time a young waiter arrived at our table, Krystal’s attention span was so maxed out with world history, I figured she might even be desperate enough to discuss