Amy had banged on the kitchen door to no avail. She had come straight from Baltimore to Les Fleurs, hoping to find James. It had taken her eight days to get everything she needed. All that time, she had called him over and over, leaving message after message. But he had never called back. Well, she didn’t blame him. She had run off just the way she had promised not to. She was dying to see him. To explain what she had understood on that train platform and why she had to leave. But where was he? Les Fleurs should have been reopened by now. James surely could have restaffed in the time she’d been gone. Instead, she opened the alley door with the key hidden behind the bricks. The alley cats whined and circled, as if they hadn’t been fed in days. A jolt of fear ran through her. What was going on? James hadn’t been here for that long? Had something happened to him? She slipped into the empty restaurant, holding the crying cats at bay. Once inside, it was silent except for her footsteps echoing off the chrome surfaces. She made her way into the dining room. A stack of mail had been pushed through the mail slot and had piled onto the wooden floor like a mountain. James hadn’t even checked in. The hairs on the back of Amy’s neck stood up. She reached for her cell phone, ready to call the apartment, when the restaurant phone began to ring. Amy answered it, hoping it would be James, even if that didn’t make a lick of sense. “Les Fleurs.” “Yes. Reservation for three tonight.” “Sorry. We’re still closed. Water damage,” Amy said, quoting the sign that hung on the front door. She looked around the pristine restaurant as she hung up the phone. How long did James intend for this ruse to go on? She called the apartment but didn’t leave a message on the machine that picked up. She called James’s cell phone and left what must have been the hundredth message. “James. It’s Amy. I’m sorry. We have to talk. Call me.” The restaurant phone rang again. She ignored it for ten rings until the person hung up. Amy went back to the kitchen, but before she left, she remembered the cats outside. She went downstairs to see what she could find for them. She knew where James kept his secret stash of cat food and decided to bring the whole five-pound bag upstairs. Someone, at least, would eat at Les Fleurs tonight. On her way out, the phone rang again. On a whim, Amy picked it up. “Les Fleurs.” “Scottie Jones here. I’d like a reservation for one tonight.” Amy sucked in her breath. “Mr. Jones?” “Yes. I told James LaChance I’d tell him when I’m coming. Well. I’m coming tonight. Is there a problem?” “Problem? Well, we’re closed tonight.” “Closed? But I’m only in town for one night. If he wants to be in the book with a shot at his third star, tell him to open. I have deadlines, you know. I’ll be there at seven.” The line clicked dead. Amy looked around at the completely empty restaurant. Why had she picked up that call? She tried James on his cell again and left a desperate message. “James! I’ve done something bad. Crazy. Just. I couldn’t help it. It was an accident. Scottie Jones is coming tonight. I couldn’t—oh, hell, just call me!” She could hear the cats crying outside. She called Roni. Troy answered the phone. “Troy? Where’s James?” “Amy? Where’d you go? James took off. And so did my mom. Amy, she stole the necklace and split to go after her One True Love.” “She left you alone again?” “I refused to go with her. Amy, I’m afraid she pawned your necklace.” Amy thought of Davey and his pawnshop. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it back no problem. Oh, Troy. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left. Where is James?” “Boston. His dad is sick—dying, even, I think. Madame Prizzo told him, and he took off, just like that. Are you in town? Amy, we have to talk! The voice is driving me nuts. I haven’t left the apartment in, like, a week.” Amy winced. She should have never left. She had underestimated how much these goofballs needed her. “Troy, forget the voice. You need to get in here, now.” “Where?” “Les Fleurs. It’s an emergency. I’ll explain when you get here.” Her apprehension growing, Amy consulted the sauce-stained list of phone numbers scribbled haphazardly directly onto the wall by the men’s bathroom. “Denny, I need you at Les Fleurs. Now,” she yelled at the sleepy prep cook. “I’m leaving this morning for my soul mate, hon,” Denny reported, his happiness cutting through his sleepiness. “I already told James days ago. He lent me the cash for the flight. My high school sweetheart—my soul mate!—is picking me up at the airport. She just got divorced, Amy. She’s got a kid. But I don’t mind a kid. I can’t believe that Troy could come up with her name like that. Out of the blue. It was like he kicked me in the nuts to get out there and change my life, and it was like she was waiting for me—” “Call her and tell her you’re not coming.” “What? Why?” Amy heard Denny’s feet hit the floor. “Because James needs you here. Now. He needs us all here. You owe him this, Denny. We all do. So keep it in your pants one more day and get your sorry butt down here.” By noon, Amy had contacted everyone she could find, and the kitchen was hopping. The staff who were still in town had filed in one by one and gotten right to work, no questions asked. Manuel got on his cell, and within the hour, a whole troupe of Ecuadorians, most of whom Amy had never seen, pulled up in an unmarked white van. Manuel took charge, getting them hoofing around the kitchen like soldiers. They obviously knew a thing or two about kitchens. Then he started in on the vendors, demanding special orders ahora . “James’s dad is lying in a hospital dying, and you’re telling me you can’t get me globe artichokes?” he shouted at Jenny from Baldor, who showed up at the back door half an hour later with everything Manuel needed, plus some choice berries in an unmarked carton that were supposed to go to Le Bec Fin. “Who’s the tiny dude on garde manger?” Amy didn’t recognize him, and yet he looked somehow familiar. “Marti Cornell,” Manuel said, naming the executive chef who arguably had single-handedly created the Philadelphia restaurant scene. Manuel smiled. “He’s probably just here to steal Jamesey’s recipes, but he’s a whiz on the sauces, so I’ll take him.” “Doesn’t James despise him?” Amy asked. “Well, yeah. These dudes hate each other, but there’s a code, and they pull in when a boat’s going down.” By the time Troy got there, it looked like everything might go okay. “What’s the deal?” Troy asked. “Scottie Jones. Seven o’clock. Go talk to Manuel. He’s in charge. He said he needs someone on sauté.” “Sauté? No way, that’s James’s spot.” Amy shrugged. “Not tonight it’s not. I still haven’t heard back from James. Now move, Troy. This isn’t messing around.” “But after, we talk,” Troy demanded. “After, we’ll talk.” Amy’s cell rang and her heart froze as she looked at the number. “James? Where are you?” “I’m at the airport. In Boston. My plane leaves in ten minutes. I got your message. What’s going on?” “James . . .” Where to begin? “Shoot—they called my plane. I’ll be there in two hours. Don’t worry. Tell everyone I’ll be there.” “James—” But the phone was already dead. By one o’clock, John-John, who had heard through the restaurant grapevine that James’s father was dying and that Scottie Jones was on his way, strode into James’s kitchen in his La Fondue hat, trailed by three of their best servers. He stuffed the hat into the garbage, cursing it roundly, and was back at his grill, threatening to kill anyone who had any problem at all with his boyfriend, Ralph. The stock was simmering, the meat cut and prepped, the mise en place in place. “We have a problem,” Elliot confided to Amy as quietly as he could as the kitchen bustled around them. “The place is gonna be too empty. We canceled all the reservations last week, and everyone thinks we’re closed. Scottie Jones won’t like it. It’ll feel dead, no matter how good the food is.” “Let’s give away free food,” Amy suggested. “That’ll fill the seats.” Elliot shook his head. “We’ve got to fill the seats with quality people. Scottie Jones has to think this place is happening. Freebies won’t bring in the right people. We’re dead in the water, no matter how good the food is.” Amy pulled out her cell. “I have an idea. Leave this one to me.” By the time Josh Toby, movie star and People magazine’s sexiest man alive, appeared at five after five, the press was already waiting at the door. Four local news crews, plus a crew from Entertainment Tonight and Insider Today, battled against the paparazzi that always followed Josh everywhere. It didn’t hurt that Josh’s publicist, Mo, had alerted them and the Philadelphia arm of Josh’s fan club, which had come out in force. Josh stood outside Les Fleurs, signing autographs and answering questions while he talked about the amazing new menu that he’d flown down from New York City on his private plane to try. Jasmine Burns, his wife and Amy’s little sister, left him outside and came in to embrace Amy. “So, where is this man you told us about?” She looked around the space. “I wish I knew. He should have been here hours ago. Thanks so much for coming, Jas. This means so much to me.” “Josh gets the credit. He said he wouldn’t miss meeting the man who stole Amy Burns’s heart for anything. Plus, he thinks he owes you eternal gratitude.” Jasmine blushed thoroughly. The debt she referred to was Amy’s prophecy that Jasmine was Josh’s One True Love. Amy was pleased that Jasmine was still as bashful as ever, despite the constant media glare. “I read in the tabloids that you’re pregnant,” Amy said. Jasmine blushed again. “Yeah, but it’s not triplets like the Inside Dirt said.” “Hot damn!” Amy engulfed her smaller sister in a bear hug, then backed off. “Oh, hey, sorry, little guy.” She patted Jasmine’s stomach. “Girl.” “Hey, that’s good news. The world couldn’t handle another man as good-looking as Josh.” Amy looked around at the seats, which were quickly being filled by early diners, some of Philadelphia’s hippest, hottest faces, who had all been tipped off by Mo that they could eat near Josh Toby tonight and that the press would definitely be there. Amy grinned. “I can’t believe you guys made it in time for us to be on the evening news. Elliot told me we’re almost fully booked.” “Well, I guarantee that every woman who shows up tonight will be dressed to the nines in hopes of catching Josh’s eye.” “Oh, you poor thing,” Amy said, not the least bit sorry for her sister, who had snagged the most famous movie star in the world, with a little help from the spirit world, of course. “I can’t wait to eat,” Jasmine said. “Is it as good as the hype?” “Honey, I inspired the chef. It’s even better.” Stu, looking as happy as ever, was describing the menu to the first diners. Every item was new, created either in James’s bed or in his shower or on his kitchen floor in the middle of the night. As Amy listened to Stu describe each dish, she thought about how she and James had gone through the names of all the Pussycats and moved on to Ginger and Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island, and Daphne and Velma from Scooby-Doo. They even named a fig-mascarpone-thyme-honey dessert Amy. Out in public at last, as if everyone didn’t already know. She had played a part in all this. She had been such an idiot to leave. She prayed that James would give her another chance. She prayed that he would make it back in time. His plane had taxied down the runway, then turned back for mechanical difficulties. Still, he should have been there by now. “Scottie Jones is in the house!” Stu called into the kitchen, stopping the line as surely as if he had slammed on the brakes. “Shit.” John-John wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “We still haven’t heard from James?” “Snow in Boston,” Amy reported. She had just gotten off her cell. “His plane never took off.” “Shit,” John-John said again. Troy looked at his stove as if it had transformed into a jet plane on an icy runway and he had to get it into the air. “Joey just seated him at table three,” Stu reported. “So let’s not screw this thing up. One dish at a time. Do it for James.” Scottie started with a Josie, and from there, everything was a blur. Dan and Stu raced in and out of the kitchen, ferrying out everything the kitchen offered up. By the second course, the mood had changed. Stu and Dan were smiling, dancing in and out of the kitchen as they urged on the cooks. “Scottie’s in heaven! He cracked half a smile! Onward, men! Onward! And nonmen, too . . .” “Watch it!” John-John waved a ten-pound frying pan. “Geez. I meant Amy!” Stu called as he disappeared onto the floor. After the scallops, Stu body-hugged Troy from behind. “He licked the sauce off his plate with his finger. I saw him. With his finger! That little putz! Doesn’t he know he’s in a three-star joint?” Stu did a little jig. “Now that I’m at the helm, maybe it’s four-star,” Troy said. He smiled through the profusion of obscenity that rained down on him, flashing them all his cocky three-finger salute. By dessert—a tasting menu carried out by a grinning Dan—everyone collapsed, silent, exhausted, and spent. “Someone should tell James,” Troy said finally. Everyone looked at Amy. Her feet hurt so badly, she was ready to dunk them into the boiling sauce pots for relief. She tossed Troy her cell phone. “You try. You’re the hero.” Troy punched in the numbers and put the phone to his ear. “Actually,” he said to Amy, “you’re the hero. But I’ll make the call.”