I pulled in a breath, forcing my heart rate to slow. Late was not the end of the world, I reminded myself. But even that bit of good advice wasn’t enough to stop me from snapping out of my seat belt the moment Eve put the car into park.

I jumped out and then grabbed my bag and my jacket. Eve calmly leaned over, checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, put on a little more lipstick, ran a brush through her hair. To make matters worse, when she finally did get out of the car, her cauliflower tumbled out of her bag, and we had to chase behind it as it rolled toward the street. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly cool, calm, and collected when we arrived at the shop.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear the man on the other side of the front door.

Just as I reached for the knob, the door flew open so hard and so fast, I had to jump back or risk getting my nose smashed.

The dark-haired man who stomped out of the shop was as broad as an I-beam and tall enough to fill the doorway. He was dressed in black pants, a black turtleneck, and a full-length black leather coat that was open and flapped around him like the wings of a bird of prey.

His eyes reminded me of a hawk’s, too. They were small and dark and so intense, they were narrowed to slits. His cheeks were an ugly color between red and purple, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d just gone a couple rounds in a prizefight.

The fact that he didn’t pay any attention to me wasn’t surprising. After all, I was pretty quick on my feet, and even after my initial surprise melted, I made sure I stayed as far out of his way as possible. But Eve was standing not six feet away, watching the whole thing, and he didn’t give her a second glance, either. And let’s face it, in her short, short khaki skirt, flamingo pink top, and hot pink stilettoes, Eve was hard to miss.

That more than anything told me the guy wasn’t thinking straight. Every step was fueled by the anger that shivered around him like the heat off a wildfire. He marched over to a black BMW double-parked at the curb, got in, and slammed his keys into the ignition. I swear he didn’t even look over his shoulder to check traffic before he rocketed away.

“Have a nice day!” Eve waved. After my close call with the front door, I was grateful for her irreverence. Something about the man in the black leather coat sent a chill up my spine and across my shoulders. Eve, on the other hand, wasn’t about to be intimidated. Not by anyone. It was one of the reasons I liked her so much, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Still grinning, I peeked into Très Bonne Cuisine. The coast was clear.

I’d been there before (remember the Vavoom!) so I was familiar with the store. Glossy hardwood floors. Sleek cabinetry. Gleaming chrome. The place was a kitchen-aholic’s dream come true, stocked floor to ceiling with the latest and greatest gadgets, the priciest of high-priced cookware, jars of mysterious spices, and books that taught special cooking techniques for every food I’d ever heard of and some that I hadn’t.

Of course, I am not a kitchen-aholic, or even a wannabee. I live on Lean Cuisine and wash it down with ice cream and the occasional peanut butter and banana sandwich. Grilled, of course. Here in the land of Proper Cooking Technique, I was nothing more than a once-in-a-while customer who spent as little as possible every time she did show up. Which I never did unless I needed a Vavoom! fix.

That’s probably why the shop owner didn’t recognize me when I walked in.

In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge me.

Jacques Lavoie was the genius behind Très Bonne Cuisine and the inventor (is that the right word for a chef?) of Vavoom! He was also a one-man publicity machine, at least if the billboards that advertised the man, the store, and his product on every city bus and at every Metro station meant anything. In fact, his face was on the Vavoom! package in the form of a black-and-white caricature that emphasized his round-as-apple cheeks and his sparkling eyes. His smile, as long as a baguette, pretty much jumped out and said, “Écoutez!You must buy this stuff,s’il vous plait. C’est magnifique!”

The success of Vavoom! had made him a legend in both cooking circles and among local entrepreneurs, a French immigrant who cashed in on the American dream. And folks in D.C. like nothing better than a Cinderella story.

Monsieur Lavoie was charming and talkative. At least he always had been every time I’d paid a visit to the shop. Even when I was only spending a measly twelve ninety-five for a two-ounce jar of Vavoom! (Like I said, I was addicted.) This time, though…

“Monsieur Lavoie?”

He stood behind the cash register, his hands clutching the counter in front of him so tight, his knuckles were white. His breaths came in short, shallow spurts. His face was as pale as the apron he wore over pressed-to-perfection Dockers and a crisp long-sleeved shirt. Whiter than the shock of salt-and-pepper hair that stood out around his head like a fuzzy halo.

Eve was right behind me when I took a step toward the front counter. She raised her voice to try to get through to him. “Monsieur Lavoie, are you-”

“Oh my! How you did startle me!” He jumped as if he’d touched a finger to an electrical line. He pressed one still-shaking hand to his heart and forced a smile. “I did not hear you come in,” he said, right before he bent and tucked something under the counter. He popped right back up. “I did not know anyone was here.”

“What about that rude man who just left?” Nobody ever said Eve was good at playing politics. She raised an eyebrow in an elegant little gesture that pretty much came right out and told the old guy that we weren’t buying his story. “You know, the one who nearly knocked my friend down when he rushed out of here?”

Monsieur waved one hand in a very Gallic gesture of dismissal. “Customers!” He rolled his eyes and laughed in one of those deep-throatedho-ho-ho s that sounds risqué even when nobody’s talking about sex. I’d always thought it was a stereotype-but I guess stereotypes have to come from somewhere.

“Some customers, they want to be treated so special. And that one…” Again, he laughed, and again, we didn’t believe him. For one thing, the man in the leather coat hadn’t been carrying one of Tres Bonne Cuisine’s trademark mint green shopping bags. For another, he was more than just a little annoyed.

“But you are not here to listen to my complaints. No! No!” Monsieur Lavoie looked at a list on the counter in front of him, made two broad check marks on it, and hurried over to where we stood. He gathered up Eve and me, one of us under each arm, and I couldn’t help but notice that he held Eve a little closer than he did me. That’s all right. I didn’t hold it against him. He was French, after all, and he did smell like Vavoom! I breathed in deep, comforted by the familiar aroma.

“You are Mademoiselles Annie Capshaw and Eve DeCateur, no? You are here for class, yes? You must hurry, or you will be late.” He ushered us toward the back of the store and a closed door tucked between a shelf of pastel-colored martini glasses and a display of color-coordinated, seasonal-themed kitchen linens. The towels were a pretty, summery green. The dishcloths were the color of cantaloupe. The pot holders…

The pot holders came in shades of pink, from magenta to blush. They were arranged on the wall like a rainbow. They were perfect, quilted squares, and the colors were breathtaking. Suddenly, I was glad I didn’t own any.

Until I saw the pricetag.

I gulped down my horror and promised myself a trip to WalMart.

Monsieur Lavoie brushed aside the pot holder at the bottom of the rainbow to reveal a security pad. “You are the last two. Everyone else is here. You do not wish to miss a thing, yes?”

“No. Yes. I mean…” While he punched in a security code for the door that led to the upstairs school, he explained that the school door was always kept locked so that customers who weren’t signed up for classes couldn’t wander up there. The lock clicked open and I tried to get my thoughts in order. “We just wanted to make sure that you were OK. That nothing was wrong. After the way that man-”