The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  “The lobster is divine—just the right amount of spice,” said another.

  The compliments came one after the other.

  Grand-mère Odette lifted her chin and nodded to me, pride sparking her eyes. “As you can see, I’m a bit incapacitated. My beautiful petite-fille is responsible for everything. It seems her skills have surpassed mine.”

  “Impossible,” I said.

  “Not impossible,” said Walter. “Just take a look around. Watch everyone’s expressions. Your cooking is so magical, I think a few people have been transported to another dimension.”

  I surveyed the party. A few guests were closing their eyes, heads tilted back as they ate, supreme pleasure on their faces. I wanted to jump into their minds to see what they were thinking. I wondered if, when they ate oysters, they thought of their childhoods by the sea. Or, when they ate the spiced lobster, if it brought memories of pain or love. Were they here right now with us? Running on a beach with reckless abandon? Curled up by a fire in a passionate embrace? At Cendrillon, I was always stuck on the line, and never saw how people reacted to my food. Eric had always taken credit for my creations. I could get used to this. Was this my new wonderland?

  Grand-mère smiled. “My Sophie is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Now, that’s the truth,” said Walter, and Robert agreed. “And I want to see what all the fuss is about. We’ve really missed her cooking.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Robert.

  “Go, go, enjoy yourselves,” I said, happy they didn’t bring up the œufs cocotte and hash browns I’d managed to ruin. “We’ll catch up later.”

  Walter kissed me on the cheek and excused himself, making his way over to the buffet, Robert in tow.

  “Your friends are lovely,” said Grand-mère.

  I didn’t have a chance to respond. Right after Robert and Walter meandered away, Phillipa bounced up to us with an older couple. They all exchanged les bises with Grand-mère Odette before turning their attention to me.

  “Sophie, these are my parents, Hank and Lizzie,” said Phillipa.

  “Sophie, it’s an honor to meet you,” said Hank. He gripped my hand hard, pumping up and down for far too long.

  Lizzie embraced me in a tight hug. She smelled strongly of tea rose perfume—so much of it I had to hold my breath until she released me. “Phillipa cannot stop talking about you,” she said, air-kissing my cheeks. “It’s Sophie this, Sophie that. She’s thrilled you’re giving her a chance to experiment more in the kitchen. I’m delighted to meet you.”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful to meet the enigmatic Sophie from New York. Now tell us, my dear—” began Hank.

  Phillipa interrupted her father, saving me from what looked like was about to become a barrage of questions.

  “Mum, Dad, let’s join up with Sophie’s friends Walter and Robert. I’ll show you exactly what we’ve been up to.” She winked and whispered out of her parents’ earshot, “Once they get started, they don’t stop. You owe me.”

  “I do,” I said. More than you know, I thought.

  With a smile on my face, I watched them walk away, wondering if Jane was really part of this family. Not only did she not resemble either of her parents, or her twin, she wasn’t nice or welcoming. My eyes scanned the crowd for Jane until I found her. I watched her greet guests and straighten her posture. I could almost hear her snooty, affected Queen’s English accent—one that had probably taken her years to master. She was from Bibury, after all.

  What could Grand-mère possibly see in Jane?

  “Jane?” came my grand-mère’s raspy voice. Putain de merde. I thought the words I’d uttered had been in my head. “She’s very efficient. A vision of elegance and grace. Before you came back to Champvert, she was the face of the château, instead of my old one, and I couldn’t run things without her. But you’re back now. Look, just look how happy the people are.”

  My stomach catapulted to my throat. I now knew why Jane was gunning for me. She wanted my life. She’d said it herself. She’d said she’d been a better granddaughter to Grand-mère than I was. And she could certainly work a crowd, flitting from one guest to the next. She caught me staring and glared. I gulped, swallowing hard.

  “Ma chérie, go get something to eat,” said Grand-mère. “Enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

  After all the hard work of preparing for the party, I was starving. “Will you be okay?”

  “Isn’t that Agnès creature behind me?”

  “I am,” said Agnès. “And I really wish you’d stop calling me a creature.”

  Grand-mère turned her head toward Agnès. “I rather like you,” she said. “You’re growing on me like the mold of well-aged Roquefort cheese, but I like you.” Grand-mère smiled at me, her teeth and eyes bright. She winked. “This Agnès creature doesn’t put up with my shenanigans or insults.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” said Agnès with a long sigh.

  Grand-mère pulled out a string of pearls from the pocket of her wheelchair. She handed them to Agnès. “These are for you, my little creature. For putting up with me. Joyeux Noël.”

  “I can’t accept these,” she said, her hands clutching the pearls. She blinked repeatedly. “They’d fire me.”

  “You can and you will accept my gift,” said Grand-mère. “What nobody knows won’t hurt them. And saying no to me isn’t an option.”

  “Thank you.” Agnès kissed Grand-mère on the cheek. “You can call me creature.”

  Grand-mère’s pale green eyes locked onto mine. “Sophie, your gift is right here, right here in this moment.”

  “I don’t understand, Grand-mère.”

  Again, she reached into the pocket of her wheelchair, pulling out a set of keys. She placed them in my hands, clasping both her hands around mine tightly. “The château is yours. I’m not fit to run things—not anymore.”

  I stood stunned, staring into her eyes, my heart racing.

  Did I have any control over my life? No, because it was spiraling out of control, I wasn’t at the wheel, and the only thing I could think of doing was bracing myself for another crash. “I—I don’t know what to say,” I stammered, practically choking on my tongue.

  “Merci would be a start,” she said. “Now go get something to eat. You’re going to need your strength.”

  There was no arguing with Grand-mère—not now, not in front of two hundred people. Not with Jane shooting me the stink eye. I had to keep myself calm, cool, and collected, even with my trembling hands and the sweat pooling in the small of my back.

  “Merci, Grand-mère,” I said, gripping the keys with a heavy heart. “I hope I won’t let you down.”

  As I made my way to the buffet, I heard somebody playing the piano quite well. I followed the melody into the salon to find Rémi playing, switching from Christmas music to French classics like “Je t’aime . . . moi non plus” by Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin and “Mourir d’aimer” by Charles Aznavour. He noticed me holding my coupe de champagne with my jaw wide open.

  “I told you it’s rude to stare,” he said.

  “You play?”

  Rémi shrugged. “When I was a troubled teen, your grand-mère signed me up for lessons.”

  “You’re really good,” I said with a pause. “Rémi, I’m sorry, I didn’t know about your parents until today.”

  He slammed the lid of the piano closed. “We need to talk.”

  Good God. I couldn’t take any more. Not now, not when I was finally enjoying myself. Here’s your nightmare before Christmas, Sophie. An angry man who hates you. A pompous witch who has made it clear she doesn’t want you around. A sick grandmother. The pressure of taking over the château. All wrapped up in a neat bow.

  Rémi stood up and latched onto my wrist, my champagne spilling on the floor. He practically dragged me through the kitchen to the servant’s stai
rwell. He crossed his arms over his chest with defiance. Although we didn’t have guns, we were in a Mexican standoff of sorts, our eyes shooting daggers. I placed my hands on my hips. “What? You wanted to talk, so talk.”

  “If you were thinking about telling Grand-mère Odette about Lola—don’t bother,” he said. I could only assume Lola was the little girl I’d seen him with at the Christmas market. Rémi continued, “Grand-mère, Clothilde, and Bernard know about her, but the others don’t—and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  I was thrown for a loop. “Why?”

  “Because I’m a single parent,” he said, his breathing labored. “Do I seem like the type of man who welcomes pity? After my parents died, that’s all I got, and I’m not going through it again. And I certainly don’t need it from you.” He paced and clenched his fists. “And how could you not have known about my parents? I must have written you two dozen times and you never wrote me back.”

  “I never received one letter from you. Not a one—” I began, but then it dawned on me. By his attitude, the hurt look on his face, I knew he’d written. “My mother,” I said, cringing with her memory. “When she moved us to New York, she wanted to put Champvert in her rearview mirror and never look back. I was eighteen when I found out she threw away Grand-mère Odette’s letters. She probably threw away yours, too.”

  Rémi uncrossed his arms and stopped pacing. He turned to face me, his long eyelashes blinking back his surprise. “You swear?”

  “I do,” I said.

  Rémi went silent for a moment. “D’accord. But why didn’t you come back to Champvert? Did you hate it here that much?”

  “I loved it here, but my mother wasn’t right in the head,” I said with a gulp. I sank down to sit on the cold concrete steps, trying to keep my feelings at bay. “She was really bad off that last summer I came back from France, and went on a downward spiral from there. She told Grand-mère Odette that I didn’t want anything to do with her and vice versa. She was a selfish mess. Her acting career never took off like she’d envisioned, and she lost all direction—hung out with all the wrong people, drank too much, and popped pills like they were candy. There were so many men, I lost track of them all. Me? A child? I had to take care of her—cook, pay the bills, and wipe up her vomit. For the remainder of my teen years, she was in a comatose state—her eyes glassy and open, there but not present in the way I needed her. At school, I kept to myself, cut the ties to any friendships I had. My mom was an embarrassment, a mess.”

  A pause hung in the air while Rémi took in all the information I’d spouted out. A surge of emotion shot through me. I took a deep breath and swallowed. I choked back the memory and continued, “She committed suicide when I was eighteen.”

  He blew out the air between his lips. “Bon Dieu,” he said, his tone gentle and peppered with concern. “I knew she died, but I didn’t know how. I’m really sorry you had to go through all that. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. “Believe me.”

  Rémi gripped my hands. “This may sound silly to you, but when you never came back to Champvert, especially after my parents died, I felt like I was a nothing, a complete zero. I was angry with you. I felt betrayed and, most of all, I was hurt. Look, I’m sorry about your mother,” he said, straightening his posture, “but you never came back to Champvert after she died. Pourquoi?”

  A knot of guilt twisted in my stomach. I felt horrible for eschewing my roots, for not being there for him when he’d needed me. A lone tear made its way down my cheek. Rémi brushed it away with the back of his hand. Our gazes met and he raised an eyebrow in a question.

  “Sophie, why didn’t you come back? I need to understand your reasons.”

  “I was accepted into the Culinary Institute of America, one of the best cooking schools in the world. After Grand-mère Odette helped me sell my mother’s apartment, I had the money to do so. Cooking was the only thing that made me happy, and the kitchen was the only place where I didn’t think about my mother. I became obsessed with my culinary career.”

  Rémi sat on the stoop. “So neither of us have parents. Anaïs, Lola’s mom, died during childbirth, and Lola only has me,” he said. “Which makes me wonder. Did you ever find your father?”

  My father? I remembered telling Rémi I’d wanted to find him. Apparently, he’d left my mother when he found out she was pregnant with me. But what kind of man just abandons their child? There had to be another reason he wasn’t in our lives, something missing from her story. She’d probably driven him away because the only person she truly cared about was herself. Finding him was all I’d talked about when I was younger, a need to complete the family circle, a need to find out where I came from. I’d wanted answers. But all the winding roads I’d traveled down led to dead ends.

  I forced a strained laugh. “Kind of hard to figure out who he is when your mother told you Zeus was your dad and that you were hatched from a giant swan egg in Central Park. Either that, or she just referred to him as some worthless Frenchman she wanted to forget. I gave up the search years ago,” I said and, feeling uncomfortable, I changed the subject. “Just so you know, I didn’t sabotage the restaurant.”

  “I know,” he said. “I overheard you talking to Phillipa.”

  I let out a breath. “You were spying on me?”

  “No, Sophie, I was in dry storage and I didn’t want to interrupt your private conversation.” Rémi lifted his shoulders. We stood in silence for a moment, me assessing his words, him regarding me with doubt, as if I wasn’t being truthful. Finally, he spoke. “The real question is: are you staying on in Champvert?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I held out the keys. “Grand-mère handed over the kingdom tonight. It was completely unexpected.”

  “I guess that makes us business partners,” he said, showing me another set of keys, an exact replica of the ones shaking in my hand. “When Grand-mère passes away, you will be receiving eighty-five percent of the estate. I get fifteen,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to do. This has all been thrust on me,” I said.

  “Lord knows, I don’t know what to do either,” he said. “But the facts are the facts; she’s sick. We’ve got to prepare ourselves.”

  “I’m not prepared for any of this.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” said Rémi. “But tonight isn’t exactly the night to do it with the party going on. We’ve been gone for a while. We should head back in . . . for Grand-mère.”

  I shrugged. “So, can we be friends again? I mean, I’d like to be. Friends.”

  Silence. His eyes met mine, not cold, not judging, but not exactly warm. My stomach pitched.

  “Alors, we have a new start. I’ll come by tomorrow and we can talk some more,” he said. “D’accord?”

  Rémi’s arm snaked its way into mine and we rejoined the festivities, me not feeling so festive. Over Rémi’s shoulder, Jane caught my eye. In addition to her fitted designer dress, she wore a wicked frown on her face. She made a beeline for us, her mouth twisting into one of her fake smiles. After shooting me a nasty sneer, she turned toward Rémi and pulled him in for les bises.

  “Joyeux Noël, Rémi,” she said, placing a possessive hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad I caught you. The guests have been wondering where our delicious piano player had gone. They were so enjoying your talents—the way you tickle the ivory keys. Would you be a dear and play some more? Something lively and fun?”

  Rémi’s posture straightened and he wore a guilty, lost-puppy look on his face. I couldn’t help but wonder if he and Jane had been a thing. I wouldn’t have blamed him. Jane was a looker, especially in her tight red Hervé Léger dress, which highlighted her more-than-ample cleavage. An odd feeling washed over me. It wasn’t anger, but something else I couldn’t pinpoint.

  “Oui, bien sûr, Jane,” he said. “What’s a party without music?”

 
; Jane and I watched Rémi walk into the salon, and then her eyes blazed into mine. “One doesn’t get their meat where they get their bread.” Her voice came out in a low hiss.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Are you not a smart girl?”

  I clenched my teeth together. “I get it. You and Rémi were a couple.”

  “No, I don’t mix business with pleasure. And neither should you.” Her blue eyes turned colder than ice. “We’re running low on oysters. Could you shuck some more?”

  I took a step back. “Didn’t you hire a staff to take care of everything?”

  “I hired them to serve, not to prepare. Are you not the chef?” she asked. Jane let out a snort and placed her hands on her hips. “You don’t want to disappoint the guests or your grand-mère, now, do you?”

  I plastered on a fake smile. “If the guests want more oysters, they will get more oysters,” I said, and then spun around on my heel, making my way to the kitchen, my nails digging into my palms. Once my anger settled down, I commandeered a crate of oysters from the walk-in and slammed them on the table.

  “How about you go shuck yourself, Jane,” I muttered, and grabbed a knife.

  “That’s a good one,” somebody said.

  I looked up. Walter and Robert stood in the kitchen. My tears exploded, and through wheezes and stutters, I let loose. I told them about Grand-mère and how I couldn’t watch her die and how I couldn’t take over the château. “I want to come back to New York,” I said, my emotions churning and boiling. “I can’t take all of this pressure. I’m going to explode. When does your flight leave? I’m coming with you.”

  Walter took in a deep breath. “Sophie, as much as Robert and I miss you, and as much as we’d welcome you back, your grand-mère obviously needs you and loves you. I know you. If you ran away, you’d regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “Be the Sophie I know and love. Stop crying. You’re not a crier. I thought we got rid of that Sophie. Be strong for your grand-mère.”