“You’ve been a bit terrifying lately, but you’re still my best friend.”
A tear slid down my cheek. “Some friend.”
Smoke filled the kitchen and the fire alarm went off. I’d burned the potatoes and my eggs were overdone. I grabbed a kitchen towel and waved it over my head. “For Pete’s sake, I can’t even cook anymore. I’ve lost my cooking mojo.”
Walter grabbed a plate, placing an overdone ramekin of eggs and burned potatoes on it. “I’m sure it’s still edible.” He picked up a forkful of potatoes and chewed, grimacing. “A bit overdone, but delicious.”
Robert stumbled into the kitchen. “What’s that horrible smell?” he asked.
“My life,” I said, throwing up my hands with resignation. “Up in smoke.”
“You still have a lot to be thankful for.”
“Like what?”
“Me and Walter,” said Robert.
If I were them, I would have pushed me out the front door, slammed it shut, and never opened it again. But they didn’t. They just exchanged kind, loving smiles and then directed them at me. Walter winked at Robert. Something was up.
I placed one hand on my hip and paced, my other hand gripping my hair. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want to kick me out? Even after this breakfast from hell?”
“Not in a million years, Sophie. You’re like the deranged sister I never had,” said Robert. “We’re with you for the long haul.”
I pinched my lips together, not able to meet their expectant eyes, so I turned my back on them and picked up the pan of burned potatoes, throwing them into the trash. I didn’t deserve their support. As the disaster slid into the garbage, I hung my head, ashamed.
“Thanksgiving is in a few days,” said Walter. “We’re going to have a party here. It’ll be a major feast.”
I whipped around to face Walter. “Wait. Hold the phone,” I said. “The two of you barely know how to boil water. I’m assuming you want me to cook?”
This was nuts. I couldn’t even get a simple breakfast right. And Walter and Robert’s friends were super judgmental, especially when it came to food. I couldn’t face another setback. Not now. Not ever again. I clenched my jaw so tightly, my teeth hurt.
“I don’t think our delivery service does Turkey Day, and if they did, I’m thinking it would be abominable,” said Robert, fanning his face dramatically. “We want the real deal—with all the fixings.”
“You’re the chef here, Sophie,” said Walter. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “And you’re the best chef I know.”
My eyes darted to the stove, nasty smoke still filling the air from the pan of burned potatoes—the odor of defeat. Although I didn’t want to let them down, my confidence was shot.
“I don’t know what I am anymore,” I said. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to cook again.”
“You’re a chef and you’re also my best friend.” Walter smiled, his eyelashes fluttering. “Plus, you are family.”
Family, I thought. My mother was dead. I didn’t know who my father was. All I really had was Grand-mère Odette and I was terrified to call her. At least Walter and Robert were on Team Sophie.
“So, Thanksgiving?” said Walter, puffing out his bottom lip. “Please?”
Robert followed suit, letting out a whimper like a puppy.
They had me. I groaned. “Fine. But if it’s inedible, don’t blame the chef. She’s kind of a hot mess right now. Plan B: we’ll order in Chinese.”
“Plan A will be fine,” said Walter.
After Robert and Walter left for work, thinking of family, I googled my grandmother’s château. What I found had to be a different home. Even on the small screen, it was so much bigger than I remembered it to be. This château had two restaurants, Les Libellules and Le Papillon Sauvage, and was listed as being a part of La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. I blinked back my confusion. Clearly, I was hallucinating. It had been too long since I’d visited my grandmother. Things couldn’t have changed that much. Still, I needed to hear her voice to ground me for a moment, though I knew it would be tinged with disappointment when I told her what had happened.
It was now two thirty p.m. in France. As I remembered from my childhood years, she would have already finished her morning duties in the garden, had lunch, and was probably having a café crème in the kitchen.
After staring at her name for a few minutes, I finally gathered the courage to call. My fingers shook as I punched in the number, listening to the phone ring and ring, that strange European drone. I was about to hang up when somebody answered.
“Allô?” came the response on the other end of the line. The intonation didn’t carry the throaty huskiness of my grandmother’s voice.
“Oui, bonjour,” I said, my words slurring a bit. I straightened my posture and continued after clearing my throat. “C’est Sophie, la petite-fille d’Odette. Clothilde? C’est vous?”
Clothilde had been by my grand-mère’s side for as long as I could remember. Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in years, I thought I recognized her voice.
“Oui, oui, oui, c’est moi,” she said. “You must be some kind of clairvoyant. I was going to call you in a few hours,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “It’s your grand-mère.”
Clothilde’s breath came heavy and it took me a few seconds to make sense of her words. Aside from food terminology and the rare occasions when I talked with my grand-mère, I hadn’t spoken or heard real French in over thirteen years. One by one, I translated her words in my head. Panic rose in my chest. I sank off the couch onto my knees. “What? Is everything okay? Is she okay?”
“No, I’m afraid everything is far from okay,” she said, her voice shaky. “Your grand-mère had a stroke a few days ago.” Clothilde sniffled. “This morning, they moved her to a larger hospital in Toulouse from Gaillac so she can get the care she needs.”
Was it possible for your heart to be sucked out of your chest? I couldn’t feel mine anymore. I was certain my grand-mère had heard I was a sabotaging chef and this distressing information had caused her stroke.
“No, no, no,” I said. “This can’t be happening. Not now.”
“I’m afraid so, dear,” she said. Clothilde inhaled deeply, clearly trying to find her breath. In between gasps and sobs, she said, “Dr. Simone is doing everything she can. Thankfully, due to the aneurysm’s small size and location, she is going to treat it within the blood vessels using a mildly invasive procedure. And she’s hoping to stop the bleeding.”
“Why didn’t anybody call me?” I spluttered.
“Ma puce, we didn’t want to worry you until we had all the facts.”
“I’ll book a ticket the instant we hang up.”
“No, don’t worry. Your grand-mère wouldn’t want you to feel like it’s an obligation.”
“Obligation” was an easy word to translate, the same word in English just with a different pronunciation. The phone was about to slip from my hand and I almost dropped it. “She doesn’t want to see me?”
“You have your own life to lead. I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’m praying she’ll be fine.”
“Clothilde, don’t be ridiculous. I’m booking a ticket.”
“If you insist,” she said with a sigh. “Call me once you have your flight information and I’ll send Rémi to pick you up.”
“Rémi? Rémi Dupont?” I asked. I hadn’t thought about him in years.
Clothilde’s voice caught for a moment. “The very one. I’d come and get you myself, but I need to be at the hospital—”
“I understand, Clothilde,” I said, choking on my words. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
Numb, I hung up the phone and called Air France. If something happened to Grand-mère Odette, if she didn’t make it, I’d never forgive myself. I booked the ticket, worried and skittish as
if I’d had too much coffee.
* * *
In terms of my wardrobe, I really didn’t have much of anything notable—just a few dresses to throw off Nicole, and her ladies who lunched; three pairs of jeans; and sweaters. As for shoes, I had a pair of ballerina flats, two sets of heels—one kitten, one high—my woolly winter boots, and Keds—all of them black and dark like my mood. I shoved everything into a bag, not quite sure what my plan was. I didn’t know how long I’d be staying in France. A week? A month? Longer? Whatever. Did it matter? Save for Walter and Robert, there was nothing left for me in New York anymore.
I thrust my knives into their roll bag carrying case. Once treasured tools of the trade I took everywhere, the knives now carried bad karma. I could barely look at them. But a chef never goes anywhere without her knives. I wondered: Was I still a chef? Would I be one again? I didn’t know. Regardless, Grand-mère Odette had given me these knives after I’d graduated from the CIA, and even if I never cooked in a restaurant kitchen again, if I never julienned one more vegetable, they meant something to me.
My mother’s affairs, at least the things I’d kept of hers, were stuffed in the back of my closet in a big blue suitcase. I decided to bring it with me, thinking maybe my grandmother and I could go through her things together. Going back to Champvert conjured up memories of her and so many questions. I knew why I had problems with my mother. I’d lived with her, taken care of her. But I’d never understood why she and Grand-mère Odette were estranged.
As I zipped up my bag, a soft knock came and Walter opened my door hesitantly. “Oh, good, Sophie, you’re here. I was worried about you.” He eyed my suitcases curiously. “Going somewhere?”
Waves of sadness and guilt washed over me. I let out a few ragged sobs and fell to my knees. My words came out in a garbled, nonsensical mess. Even I didn’t understand what I was saying as I tried to explain my grandmother’s serious situation.
Walter sucked in his breath. “Oh dear.” He pulled me in for a hug. Instead of talking, he just held me close and caressed my head. When Walter finally released me from his embrace, he had tears in his eyes, too. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
We flopped down on my bed, lying side by side. I wondered if I’d ever see this beautiful room again. The wrought iron four-poster bed with billowy white curtains. The whitewashed wooden blinds. The antique dresser with the white marble top and the bronze Degas ballerina, a replica of La petite danseuse de quatorze ans, resting on it. A lithograph print of Josephine Baker in her famed banana skirt. Knowing of the passion I had for my French roots, Walter had designed this room wanting me to feel comfortable before I’d moved in for the big charade.
Walter finally broke the silence. “When does your flight take off?”
“Eleven o’ clock,” I said with a sniffle. “It’s the red-eye.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. I booked a one-way ticket.”
Walter gulped. “You know this is your home. When you come back, we’ll welcome you with open arms.”
“I know. Thanks, Walter. For everything.”
“Can I at least reimburse you for your flight? It’s the least I can do. And I want to do so much more.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Your friendship has meant the world to me. Without you, I wouldn’t have anybody.”
The truth of this statement hit me in the gut.
“I don’t know how long you’re going to be gone, but I’m going to miss you, even if it’s just for a day. I’m pretty used to having you around—even when you’re a pain in the ass.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Robert has to work late. He’s going to be so upset he wasn’t able to see you off.”
“Give him a big smooch from me.”
“I will,” said Walter, wiggling his brows. “Maybe even in public.”
Despite my own troubles, I managed to grin, happy he’d finally found his courage to live his life the way he wanted to—out in the open. “I forgot to tell you that I’m proud of you.”
“I know you are,” he said. “If you need anything, anything at all, call me, text me, or send a carrier pigeon. I’m here for you.”
“I will,” I said. “And I’m sorry I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. I probably would have made a disaster of the meal anyway.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep my tears from falling. “I’ve ordered everything you’ll need from Zabar’s for twelve people—a pre-roasted turkey and all the fixings, a couple of desserts, plus a few nibbles for an apéro like smoked salmon, foie gras, and grilled shrimp. They’ll deliver everything on Thanksgiving morning.”
“What am I going to do without you, Sophie?”
“Between you and Robert, you’ve got this. All you need to do is heat what needs to be heated up.”
“I meant I’ll miss you.” Walter’s eyes went all watery and he swallowed hard. “And, Sophie, you’ve got this. You’re an amazing chef. Sure, you’ve been thrown off your game, but with everything that happened, it’s no wonder. You’ll start over and become a bigger, more badass chef than ever before. You’ll rise from the ashes like a culinary phoenix!”
My lips quivered when I forced a smile. Although Walter’s statement was one of support, it reminded me, yet again, that I’d suffered a career destruction of mythical proportions.
8
au revoir, new york
I FLEW ON my first international flight when I was seven, my mother by my side. She didn’t pay attention to me, just read fashion magazines and didn’t take her sunglasses off. I wiggled in my seat with my coloring books, a stuffed rabbit, and my favorite blanket. Although I didn’t have any memories of her, I was excited to spend time with my grandmother, a phantom I’d been aware of but had only met when I was an infant. I didn’t sleep, just sat in my seat wide-eyed, giddy with excitement.
My mother walked me off the plane and into the terminal, where Grand-mère Odette waited. She was easy to spot—an older, plumper version of my mother, her gray hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Relief washed over me. Definitely not the Wicked Witch of the West. My grandmother and my mom didn’t greet each other like normal people. An icy friction volleyed between their cold stares that even I, as a child, could feel. There were no hugs, no kisses. Just tension.
“It’s nice to see you’re well, Céleste,” said my grandmother.
“I wish I could say the same thing to you.” My mother pushed me forward. “This is Sophie.”
My grandmother crouched down to eye level. “What a beautiful child. I hope your mother hasn’t ruined your education—”
“Mother, don’t start up or I’ll take her with me.” My mother’s eyes narrowed into a dagger-shooting glare, the same one she gave me if I didn’t clean up my toys. “Everything is all sorted?” my mother asked.
Grand-mère Odette handed her a file. “Yes. And I’m glad you finally agreed to allow Sophie to visit with me.”
“I wanted to spend some time in Paris anyway. As you know, she’ll fly as an unaccompanied minor on the way home. Which is in New York, not in France. Don’t get any ideas. Make sure she’s on the plane.” Her red lips pursed. “The key to the apartment?”
“It’s in the folder.”
“And the money? I’m twenty-five now. It can no longer be blocked.”
“The notaire has transferred it to your account.”
“Parfait,” said my mother. Before she walked away, she said, “Sophie, I’ll see you in a few months.”
She didn’t bother to kiss me. She just left. Grand-mère Odette took me by the hand and we watched her disappear into the crowded terminal, her heels click-clacking on the floor, men giving her appreciative looks. Grand-mère Odette smiled. “It’s about time you find your roots, ma chérie,” she s
aid.
Together, we hopped on another flight to Toulouse, where I inundated her with questions.
“Is it true we are noble?”
“Yes, but only in name. Your great-great-grand-père was a comte, which is the same rank as an earl in England, and your great-great-grand-mère was considered a comtesse. We are the Valroux de la Tour de Champvert, but titles in this day and age are silly, pretentious, and don’t mean a thing.”
Visions of my favorite Disney characters filled my little head. “Am I a princess?” I asked.
She kissed me on the cheek. “You are ma princesse.”
The summers that followed until I was thirteen were absolute magic. I’d swim in the river or the lake with Rémi, the boy close to my age who lived on the farm down the road. Sometimes we’d chase fat geese and chubbier rabbits on his farm. Sometimes we’d catch and release slimy frogs. But my favorite thing to do was picking plump black cherries in the orchard for grand-mère’s clafoutis and homemade compotes.
Part of me was excited now to get back to Champvert, but not under these conditions. My stomach twisted in knots. There was no way I’d get any sleep until I was in France and until I knew Grand-mère Odette was okay. Plus, how was I going to explain what had gone down in New York? I wasn’t ready for an onslaught of I-told-you-sos. I knew all of the decisions I’d made so far had blown up in my face.
I crammed myself into the tight window seat and took in my surroundings. A few businessmen in suits. A family with two unruly children. Well-heeled women. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the plane appeared to freeze with all movement. It could have been supreme paranoia, but it seemed like everybody around me—even the kids—had stopped what they were doing and were staring at me. A sudden fear gripped my heart. I put my sunglasses on to avoid making eye contact with anybody, hoping I wouldn’t be recognized.
After the flight took off, I stared vacantly at the television monitor, flipping through films with the remote and never settling on one. I couldn’t sleep, my mind racing between my grand-mère’s health and my ruined career.
The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 6