It was beautiful—but Grand-mère Odette never mentioned the Bib Gourmand. Granted, I’d been caught up in my New York life, but we did occasionally talk on the phone. Why so many secrets?
Clothilde scurried up behind me. Hunched over, I put my hands on my knees, bracing myself. “Clothilde, tell me what in the world is going on at the château.” She shrugged, and as I caught my breath I pointed to the sign plastered by the door. “A Bib Gourmand?”
“Oui, that’s what the award is called.”
“And she didn’t tell me? About this?”
“I don’t see what the big to-do is,” said Clothilde.
“It’s a huge deal. Enormous,” I said. “It’s Michelin.”
Before she could respond, Bernard burst into the restaurant. He still wore the bushy mustache that curled up on the edges like Salvador Dalí’s and still had bright blue eyes that sparkled with decades of laughter. He kicked the snow off his boots and raced up to me, twirling me around.
“Be careful,” said Clothilde with a tsk-tsk. “She had a fall.”
“Je sais, je sais, mon amour, mais elle est là!” (I know, I know, my love, but she is here!) he said with a wink, setting me down with care. “And she is so skinny. We need to feed her.” He patted his portly belly. “Tu as faim, Sophie?”
“Oui, un peu” (Yes, a little), I said. Mostly, I was starving for anwers.
“Come sit down next to your tonton,” said Bernard, referring to himself as my uncle, like he’d done when I was a child. “My beautiful wife will get us sorted out.”
“I should help her,” I said.
“Non,” said Clothilde. “I can manage. You’re just getting your strength back. And we need you to be strong.”
“For what?” I asked. Were they trying to fatten me up as an offering to the cooking gods? If so, take me now, because my prayers in New York had gone unanswered.
“Why, the wedding weekend, of course.”
“Wait. Hold the phone. What wedding weekend?”
“Hold the phone?” she asked. “I feel quite lost half the time with you young girls. What an odd expression.”
Probably like the one twisting my face. “Wedding? I thought the château was closed for the winter season—”
“It is—unless we book a private event,” she said. “We’d like for you to plan the menu.”
“You cannot be expecting me to cook,” I said with too much force. “You saw me a few weeks ago. You know I can’t do anything. I-I-I—”
“Need to stop playing the victim. And you will do this for me. No questions. No arguments. No pity party. You are a talented chef. I need your help. That is all.”
Bernard shook his finger and winked. “A little advice. Don’t argue with my wife.”
Good lord, great God almighty, what had I roped myself into?
As Clothilde darted around gathering our breakfast, I sat rigid. Finally, she placed a platter of croissants, yogurts, and a French press of coffee on the table. There was another drink, the earthy scent hitting my senses immediately. “I made you a chocolat chaud,” she said. “You loved them when you were younger.”
“I still love them now,” I said.
She placed the bowl in front of me and I took a sip, the chocolaty goodness sliding down my throat, each gulp a memory. I found myself getting lost in my childhood—when I was free and happy with no cares in the world. Seven years old—the first time I tasted a real hot chocolate, and when I whirled around with unrestrained glee, begging for more, the cocoa melting on my tongue. I remembered when my grand-mère served me my first one, and the way she laughed at my delight. I remembered her words.
“It’s the simple things in life that make us happy,” she’d said.
So I wondered, why was everything so damn complicated now?
“Ma puce, you remind me of your grandfather in so many ways. I see him in you,” said Bernard, pulling me back from the past into the here and now. “You have his eyes, a strength.”
“What was he like?” I asked.
“Strict and very serious, but passionate with a zest for life. He was a very giving man. A lot of people were struggling financially in Champvert, and he helped all of us, especially Clothilde and me. He paid for our son, Victor, to move to Paris for university and mentored him through business school. He bought our farm and invited us to live in the guesthouse. He gave us back our lives. In fact, he bought most of the properties in Champvert.” Bernard paused. “I miss Pierre every day, especially during the harvest, which you unfortunately missed. I hope you’ll be able to experience the magic someday.”
“I hope so, too,” I said, only now realizing how indebted the villagers of Champvert were to my family. The feelings that came with knowing my grandparents controlled everything like land overlords unsettled me. Granted, they were noble; I knew this. But it was like the entire community was enslaved to them. I wondered about my mother. She did everything she could to get out of Champvert. Was it their control she was trying to escape from? I wanted answers and only my grand-mère could give them to me.
“We’ll have to give you a proper wine tasting one of these days,” said Bernard. “Unfortunately, it’s only nine in the morning.”
“I could use some liquid courage now,” I mumbled, which Bernard clearly didn’t hear.
“It’s time to fatten you up,” said Bernard, pointing to the tray. “Mange-le.”
“Aren’t Frenchwomen supposed to be skinny?” I asked.
“Bah, not in the southwest of France. The food is too good here. And women with a little meat on their bones, like ma poule, are full of life.”
The way Clothilde smiled at Bernard lifted my spirits for a moment. It was inspiring. I’d never experienced love, not this way. Eric had shown me his “love” in bed in an animalistic way, never through kind actions or words. It wasn’t love; it was just sex. Pushing the thoughts of him out of my mind, I grabbed a chocolatine and inhaled its fragrance, the buttery flakes crumbling in my fingers. Food had always been my way of showing love, but I’d lost the desire to cook. I wondered if I could get it back again.
Right when I was chewing, Rémi appeared in the doorway of the restaurant, arms crossed over his chest. He’d shaved off his beard and wore black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and, from what I could tell, a black leather belt with a silver Prada buckle. The boy could clean up. His eyes bore into mine. “I’m supposed to take you to visit with Grand-mère. Clothilde asked because she’s uncomfortable driving in the snow.”
Buttery crumbs fell from my mouth, chocolate sticking to my tongue. My gaze shot to Clothilde’s. “I don’t want to go anywhere with him.”
“Fine by me,” said Rémi. “I have many things to do.”
Clothilde slammed her hand on the table. “The two of you are going to the hospital together. No arguments.”
Bernard raised his hands in resignation. “Never argue with my wife.”
Rémi turned to leave, but didn’t. He stood in the doorway, his back to me, his breathing labored. “On y va, Sophie” (Let’s go, Sophie), he said. “Now. I haven’t got all day.”
After scarfing down my chocolatine, I scrambled out of my chair and grabbed my coat. “So sorry to take up your precious time, Rémi,” I said.
Rémi pushed open the door. “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full,” he said. “And, believe me, I have better things to do than chauffeur you around. Not everything is about you, princesse,” he said, and stormed down the driveway.
Just like at the airport, Rémi’s pace was brisk and I had to scramble to keep up with him, nearly falling in the snow a dozen times. He didn’t look back once. He bolted right to the truck and jumped in. From the inside, he opened the passenger door. As I crawled into my seat, his upper lip curved into a snarl.
“Look, I’m not happy about this either,” I said, meeting his glare. “But I
need to see Grand-mère and I can’t drive with my ankle. Well, there’s that and the fact that I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Quoi?” he asked, mouth agape. “How could you not know how to drive? You are twenty-six years old.”
I let out a huff. “Well, I lived in the city—no need for a car. I took taxis or the subway and never learned.”
His eyes flashed onto mine for a quick second. He brushed back a loose strand of thick black hair off his forehead. “Et alors, you are here now,” he said. “Maybe you should learn.”
“Oooh,” I said. “Was that a full sentence?”
“I believe I’ve spoken three, maybe four,” he said.
I went silent, staring straight ahead, until he started up the engine. I could handle a forty-five-minute ride, even though it was colder in this truck with his attitude than it was outside.
“Yes, I am here now,” I muttered. “Might as well make the best of it.”
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” he said. “Like your mother.”
If I had a craw, Rémi had definitely gotten into it. He pushed my anger to heightened limits. How dare he bring up my mother. Hot tears threatened to explode, but there was no way I was going to cry—not in front of him. “Whatever you want to think,” I said. “Let’s just get to Grand-mère.”
“D’accord, princesse.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Do we need rules?” he asked, and I nodded. “Don’t speak.”
“Fine,” I said, wanting to get the last word in.
Rémi peeled out of the driveway. We sat in silence for the forty-five-minute drive to Toulouse, me with my forehead pressed against the window, my breath fogging up the glass. Screw Rémi. Screw Jane. Screw Eric. And screw the world. I needed to find the courage to ask my grandmother some questions when I didn’t have much of it.
15
chasing dreams
Grand-mère’s eyes lit up when Rémi and I walked into her room. She looked as if she was doing much better. Her hair was coiffed and her cheeks had a rosy tint. “Oh, my heart may burst. My two precious darlings have come for a visit,” she said. “Sophie, Clothilde told me you had a fall. Are you okay? I was very worried.”
“You shouldn’t worry over me. I’m just a little bruised and my ankle hurts, but I’m fine,” I said, and kissed her cheek. “I’m worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t be,” said Rémi with an annoyed huff. “She’s on the road to a complete recovery. Just look at her.”
I didn’t know if he said this for his benefit or for hers. Or to drag me under the rug. Whatever the case, his modus operandi worked. Grand-mère’s hand latched onto Rémi’s and she smiled. “That I am, my darling boy. I’m doing much, much better, and I’ll be out of here in no time.”
I wondered what my grandmother saw in Rémi. Maybe he had two personalities—one for the rest of the world, a Dr. Jekyll, and one for me, the murderous and violent Mr. Hyde. I hoped Rémi only hunted wild animals, because he was gunning for me. Rémi and my grandmother swapped les bises and he excused himself. “I’ll let you and Sophie speak alone,” he said.
My grandmother nodded and we both watched him leave the room. “I think of Rémi like a son. He’s a very handsome fellow, is he not?” said my grandmother with a chuckle. “Much nicer than the fellow I’d met in New York. What was his name again? The chef you were working with?”
“Eric,” I said with a pause. She knew exactly who he was and she’d opened the doorway to the conversation I wanted to have. I was going in. “Grand-mère, I know what you did. And I’m not happy about it. How could you?”
Her gaze didn’t waver from mine. “How could I do what?”
I cringed. “You told Eric to sabotage me. I found the emails you exchanged with him on your computer.”
Grand-mère went silent for a moment, taking in my confession. Why didn’t she say anything?
“I can’t believe you told Eric to destroy my career.”
“I said no such thing,” she said. “Eric saw what he wanted to see in my words. I told him you were independent. Is that a lie? Is that not true?”
“Yes, but you wrote to him, saying if he wanted to win me back, he needed to make me dependent on him.”
“And then I wrote bonne chance, did I not? Is the boy so thick he doesn’t understand sarcasm? If I were you, I’d read my response to him again,” she said. “You are a Valroux de la Tour de Champvert. You are my granddaughter. We are independent women. This isn’t the 1950s.”
I didn’t need to read through the emails again; I’d memorized them. My guard was up higher than the gates at the château; I needed to lower it. I needed to trust somebody, anybody, starting with my grand-mère. I was sick of feeling as if the whole world was out to get me. I wanted to believe her, to understand her motives.
“No, it isn’t,” I said. “I’m taking it that you know what happened in New York?”
“Oui,” she said. “I may be old and sick, but I monitor the news—especially when my granddaughter is involved.”
I was getting tired of repeating my side of the story, but sat down and did it again, reliving every hellish and painful moment. “I didn’t sabotage the restaurant,” I said, ending my woeful tale.
“I know you would never do anything like that,” she said, her eyes squeezing shut. “When I read that article in the Times, my heart broke. I had a feeling you’d been set up and that Eric had something to do with it.”
“You’ve been monitoring me?” I said, shell-shocked.
“I have nothing but love for you,” she said, and my heart plummeted into my stomach. “We don’t talk often and I wanted to make sure you were well, especially after your mother’s grand escape from life. I have your name on Google Alerts. I’ve read about your triumphs and, alors, this situation. If this makes me a bad person, I don’t know what a good person is.”
“You could have told me,” I said. “I mean, you didn’t even ask me if I needed letters of reccomendation for school. You just did it.”
“Ah, so you found those, too,” she said, and I flinched. “Maybe I meddled in your life. Do you blame me? Am I supposed to sit back and watch you suffer?”
“Keeping secrets is just as bad as lying,” I said. “You’ve been keeping so much from me.”
“Sophie, when was the last time you were here? When was I ever given the chance to speak openly and honestly with you?” She gripped my hand with such strength, for a moment I forgot how sick she was. “We’re both guilty of pushing each other away.”
My brain felt like a thousand-pound weight was pulling my head down. “Because of my mother,” I said, hunching over and scrunching my body into a tiny ball, hugging my knees to my chest. “And what she did.”
“Yes, ma chérie,” she said. “But I don’t want to talk about Céleste. It upsets me.”
“But we have to talk about her. I need to talk about her.”
“And one day we will. But that day is not today.”
I snapped upright. The truth was she never wanted to talk about my mother. At the time, with my head spinning, I didn’t either, so instead of pushing, I changed the subject. “I wish you had told me about all the changes you’ve made—the restaurants, the fact that you’re a Grand Chef with the famed Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. The Bib Gourmand? Why didn’t you tell me anything? I feel like an outsider—and not a very welcome one.”
“You had your own dreams to follow. I wanted you to come back here of your own accord, to see for yourself everything I’ve done,” she said. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to follow my plans and dreams.”
“Well, that didn’t exactly happen,” I said, clearing my throat.
“Whatever the circumstances, you’re here now and that’s all that matters to me.” She turned her head, glancing at me briefly. “With my health, death mig
ht come knocking on my door sooner than later.”
“Grand-mère, please don’t speak of such things.”
“But I must. It’s time for you to know the truth about your inheritance,” said my grandmother. “French inheritance laws protect children, not the spouse. Céleste didn’t care about her father. All she wanted was his money. I knew what she’d do with her funds—waste them on useless things. Or do something rash like move to New York. Which is exactly what she did when she received her inheritance after my father passed away. Your grandfather and I went directly to the notaire to protect your interests. If we didn’t do this, your mother would have inherited two-thirds of the estate, the cash in the bank totaling the equivalent of 15,000,000 euros at the time, only one quarter left to me. Of course, the inheritance left to me by my parents is not included in this sum, and I have lifetime rights to the château, so it can’t be sold until my death.”
“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”
Grand-mère fixed me in her gaze, unflinching. “After Céleste left with you, construction began—a new roof, the greenhouse, the renovations to most of the rooms, and the conversion of the barn. We poured money into the château. We bought new property in my name. And now with your mother deceased, after I die, you, ma chérie, will receive the total of the estate, save for fifteen percent, which will be allocated elsewhere, according to my wishes. But the château will be yours.”
Mine? The château would be mine? The idea had never entered into my head, not even in my wildest dreams. My breath came out in ragged gasps. I couldn’t even run a kitchen. How on earth was I supposed to manage a château? The pressure was just too much. “This is a lot to take in,” I said.
“I understand,” she said, clasping her hands around mine. “If my blood pressure stays stable, the doctor is letting me leave right around Christmas under the strict orders that I don’t overexert myself. I’ll enlighten you on the inner workings of the château as best I can. I know you have a lot to think about.”
The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 12