The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  I lifted my chin and wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my dress. I stopped pacing and flopped down on a stool, thinking about how I could find this elusive strength that people seemed to think I had. Walter, knowing me, let a long silence pass before he spoke.

  “So tell us about life at this wonderful château. It can’t be that bad living in a beautiful castle in southwestern France.”

  “Where do I begin?” I asked.

  “With the good things,” he said.

  My sigh came out in a whoosh. “Can I just tell you everything? Because there’s some good . . . and some bad.”

  “That pinch-nosed Jane?” questioned Robert with a grimace.

  I nodded.

  “She’s extremely jealous of you,” said Walter.

  “Why should she be? She’s pretty, smart, and—”

  “Think about it, Sophie. She thinks she runs the place and then you, the only heir, come waltzing through the door after years of being away. She’s threatened by you.”

  “Yeah, that thought crossed my mind. But she shouldn’t be threatened. I’m a mess.”

  “The good thing about messes is that they can be cleaned up.”

  “I need a whole crew,” I said.

  “You have us,” said Walter, and Robert nodded. “And you also have Phillipa. She worships the ground you walk on, and I really like her. Focus on the good things, like her, and pray your grand-mère gets better.”

  I placed my hands on the prep table, steadying myself. “Why do you always have to be right?”

  “Because I’m on the outside looking in. I have no idea how I’d handle everything you’re going through.”

  “One bite at a time,” I said. “Truth be told, shucking oysters will help me to sort out my thoughts.”

  “We’ll help you,” said Robert, and Walter grimaced.

  “You’re wearing Armani,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure neither of you knows how to shuck.”

  “True,” said Robert. “But we’ll stick by you and we’ll watch, chanting, ‘Shuck Jane, shuck Jane.’”

  I let out a laugh and picked up an oyster, preparing to stab it. “I missed you guys so much.”

  21

  the hidden journal

  On Christmas morning, Walter and Robert returned to New York without me. Although part of me wanted to sneak myself into one of their suitcases, for now I had to stick it out in Champvert for Grand-mère. Save for two members of housekeeping, the rest of the staff had taken off for a break and would return to the château at the beginning of February. I was going to miss Phillipa like crazy, as she and her family were jaunting off to England, but was happy I didn’t have to deal with Jane and her nasty attitude.

  Rémi came over with Lola on one arm, a baby bag on the other. She was adorable, with chubby sausage legs ensconced in pink tights, and her châtain (medium brown with a bit of blond) hair was tied into two little pigtails on the top of her head like the antennae of a fuzzy caterpillar. As Rémi took her sparkly Christmas coat off, I noticed the golden specks in Lola’s hazel eyes, the shape of her lips. My gaze blasted from Lola’s cherubic face to Rémi’s. “Rémi, I thought we were continuing our talk?”

  “We can talk in front of her,” he said. “She doesn’t understand much. And I wanted you to meet her.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m tired of keeping her a secret. It’s not fair to her,” he said. “I made a mistake. I’m fixing it. After we spoke last night, I did a lot of thinking and I realized keeping secrets does more harm than good.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Pffff, who cares? This is France. Unless it’s family or close friends, people don’t pry into other people’s business. Let them talk. They always do—especially les dames.”

  “You’re scaring me, Rémi,” I said.

  “Pourquoi?”

  “Because you’ve completely changed overnight,” I said. “And you have a wild look in your eyes.”

  “But this is the old Rémi, the one who used to believe in happiness. He saw a sliver of what things could be like last night,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “Bonjour, Sophie, it’s Rémi, your childhood friend. I missed you.”

  I squinted at him with confusion.

  “That’s what I should have said at the airport when I picked you up.”

  “Oh, I get it, Mr. Hyde, we’re backtracking now.”

  Rémi’s face pinched with confusion. “Mr. Hyde?”

  “Never mind.”

  Lola stretched her arms out to me. “Maman,” she said.

  “I’m not your maman,” I said, and she started to cry and squirm in Rémi’s arms, reaching out for me.

  “Sophie, s’il te plaît,” said Rémi. “Évidemment, she thinks you’re Anaïs.”

  “Why on earth would she think that?” I asked.

  “She’s seen pictures,” said Rémi. “You both have black hair.”

  I studied his face anxiously. What was his point? Why did he have to say Anaïs and I had anything in common? It was then I realized I wasn’t angry; I was jealous, and that was the feeling I’d had last night with Jane. “Le Père Noël clearly has a twisted sense of humor.”

  Lola wailed and held her arms out to me. I sighed and scooped her up. She nestled into my neck. Her hair smelled like strawberries and sunshine. “I’m your Aunt Sophie,” I said, trying to figure out a solution to this conundrum. “Tatie Sophie.”

  “Tatie?” she questioned, sucking back her tears. She placed her chubby, sticky hands on my cheeks, her little mouth twisted with confusion. “Pas Maman?”

  “Non, pas Maman,” I said. “Tatie Sophie.”

  Rémi blew out a sigh of relief.

  “How would you like your tatie Sophie to make you a chocolat chaud before you visit with Grand-mère?” I asked, emphasizing “tatie” again, and looking to Rémi for his approval. I didn’t know what this child was allowed to eat or drink. I didn’t know a thing about children.

  “Oui, Tatie Sophie,” she said, bouncing in my arms. “Oui, oui, oui! Chocolat chaud! Chocolat chaud!”

  Lola bounced in my arms like a jumping bean. I adjusted my arm under her bottom so I wouldn’t drop her, and that’s when a wetness saturated my arm. I handed Lola back to Rémi. “I think somebody needs their diaper changed,” I said.

  “We’ll meet you in the kitchen, Tatie,” he said, lifting up Lola like she was on an airplane ride. “A pretty baby girl needs her diaper changed.”

  They zoomed into the salon. Thankful for the distraction, I headed into the kitchen, washed my arm with soap, and then rubbed on a gel disinfectant. Then, I pulled out a pot and gathered most of the ingredients—milk, crème fraîche, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon. I was about to head into dry storage to grab the chocolate when Rémi came in with Lola.

  “Can you hold her for a second?” he asked. “I need to grab a high chair.”

  Lola was squirming in my arms before I could respond and I hoped she wouldn’t pee on me again. She grabbed my braid, pulling it. “Mon chocolat chaud, s’il te plaît, Tatie.”

  When I was in New York, I hadn’t given motherhood much consideration, thinking I’d be a terrible mom, but with Lola cuddling up to me with her sweet baby breath, the foreign concept crossed my mind for a second. But why was my head even going there? The answer returned with a high chair. I found myself staring at every inch of Rémi’s body. The way the dimples formed in his cheeks when he smiled and set Lola in her chair. The way his strong hands buckled her in. The way his broad shoulders shifted when he straightened up to face me. I’d also felt the same way last night when we had our talk. My God. I couldn’t be falling for Rémi, the ward of my grand-mère and, although not a blood relative, a member of the family. He had a little girl to take care of; this was too much. An angel without wings, Lola came with extraordinary responsibilities. I shook m
y head to clear it. I had enough responsibilities now, like making sure my grandmother got better. Auditioning to be a replacement mom wasn’t in the cards.

  “You’re staring at me again, Sophie,” said Rémi. “And with a look of disgust. Is it because of what just happened?”

  “No, no, no, it’s fine,” I said. “I just don’t know where to find the chocolate for the chocolat chaud.”

  “Do you always make such funny faces when you’re thinking?”

  “I guess,” I said, heading into dry storage, where I could hide the blush reddening my cheeks. “By the way, what’s going on with you and Jane?” I called out. Damn it. I hadn’t meant to be so forthright. I’d wanted to work this nagging question naturally into the conversation. My hand swept over a glass jar filled with peppercorns as I grabbed the chocolate bar, and little black balls scattered across the floor. I sank down to my knees and did my best to pick the grains up.

  “Jane?” he asked, standing in the doorway. He paused, his lips pinched into a smirk. “What about her? And what are you doing?”

  “I spilled some pepper. I’m picking it up,” I said. “Speaking of spices, Jane is very pretty.”

  “She’s not my type,” said Rémi. “While I may be a man with urges, I’m first a papa. The next woman I’m with will be the one—one who accepts me and my daughter.”

  I straightened up, trying to regain my composure. “Well, I’m sure that woman is out there somewhere.”

  “I’m sure she is,” he said.

  The chocolate bar I’d commandeered dropped from my hand to the ground. It was a good half hour before the chocolats chauds were made, me fumbling and evading Rémi’s eyes. Instead of focusing on his lips and wanting to kiss them, I fussed over Lola. Finally, I asked, “Can we really talk? In front of her?”

  “Sophie, she’s two and a half. She doesn’t understand anything but chocolat and toys. We can talk about anything you want. Just don’t swear. She’s like a parrot and repeats things.” He whispered in my ear, his breath all chocolaty and delicious. “Thanks to me, she oftentimes says merde, merde, merde, or putain.”

  I should have laughed, but couldn’t. I had too much on my mind—this nagging attraction to Rémi, and my grand-mère’s “gift.” I was a nervous mess. “Rémi, what am I going to do? I can’t take over the château. I just can’t do it.”

  “Then you might be a little bit crazy,” he said.

  “Please, don’t use that word,” I said, and his shoulders slumped.

  “Désolé,” he said. “No offense.”

  “It’s fine. But what, worst-case scenario, what do I do?”

  “After the notaire calls us in, we’ll have around four months to make the decision to accept or reject our inheritances.” He wiped the chocolate dribbling down Lola’s face with a napkin.

  “Can I just sign over the château to you?”

  “Sophie, as you may have noticed, I’m not exactly a people person,” he said. “I like being behind the curtain, not the star. Plus, you are the rightful heir, and Grand-mère wants this for you. It’s a family business. And you are her family.”

  “You’re her family, too,” I said. “She thinks of you like a son.”

  “You just can’t gift an estate of this size—the taxes would be extraordinary. Also, selling a château of this size would be quite difficult, not to mention you’d be letting down all the people who work here, including me.”

  “The entire village of Champvert,” I said with a sigh. “So you’re telling me that I basically have to accept my inheritance or I’ll ruin everybody’s lives.” He shrugged. “What if I accept it and have Jane run things? She could hire a new chef—”

  Rémi’s jaw dropped. “Jane? Please don’t give that woman that kind of power,” he said. “She’s already a snob. Imagine if she truly ran things around here; it would be hell, and the château would go down in flames.” He paused. “Plus, where would you go? Back to New York?”

  “It’s where I’m from,” I said. “It’s where my roots are.”

  “Roots can be replanted. Don’t forget you were born in France.” Rémi’s eyebrows furrowed. “Give this decision great thought, Sophie. It’s not only yourself you have to think about. And, although I wasn’t exactly kind to you in the beginning, I’m kind of hoping you’ll stick around.”

  “So, we’re friends again?”

  “For now,” he said with a bashful grin. Was he flirting?

  * * *

  Every day Grand-mère seemed to be getting her strength back. On New Year’s Eve, she was propped up in her bed, Agnès checking her vital signs. Her eyes darted to Agnès’s. “Are you finished with poking and prodding me yet, creature?”

  “Yes, my queen,” said Agnès, shooting me a surreptitious wink.

  “Please leave,” said Grand-mère.

  Agnès gave me a panicked look. “I really should stay.”

  Grand-mère Odette’s voice rang loud and clear. “I would like to have a private conversation with my granddaughter,” she said, and Agnès stiffened.

  “I’ll be right outside the door,” said Agnès. “If she needs me—”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Grand-mère. “I’m not dead yet. Sophie, be a dear and get the fire going. I’m quite cold.”

  Agnès left the room and I stepped over to the fireplace, my hands trembling from nerves as I lit match after match. I could feel her watching me. Finally, the fire sparked and the flames lit up my grand-mère’s eyes.

  “Sophie, I spoke with Rémi. He told me that you know of Lola, his darling little girl. And what I have to say is this: A child should never have to lose her mother. And a mother should never have to lose her daughter,” she said. “I know I haven’t wanted to talk about Céleste when you’ve asked—it hurt me to think about her. But I realize I’ve been hurting you, too. I’ve given this great thought, and it’s time for you to learn the truth.”

  I sank down into the window seat. Although I was the one who’d pushed the subject, I felt as if I’d climbed up a jagged, rocky cliff and the only way to get down was to jump into the roiling sea below, not knowing the outcome. I shuddered. I’d wanted to have this conversation for so long, but wasn’t sure if I was ready for the answers. But I knew I needed them. I pulled my knees to my chest, preparing to dive in. “We’re finally going to talk about her?” I asked.

  “Non, ma chérie,” said Grand-mère. She gripped her rosary beads. “Not exactly.”

  I snapped to attention, my spine rigid. “I don’t understand.”

  “Under a plank in the closet, hidden in the floor, is my journal,” she said, pointing to the door with a shaky hand. “I don’t know how to speak of the shameful secrets of my past. The journal will be our starting point. Go get it.”

  With questions pulling and tugging at my brain, I headed into the closet. My heart raced as I stooped down onto my knees and ran my fingers over the wood, trying to find a knotty board in the floor that would be easy to lift like the one in the kitchen. Bingo. I found it and lifted the board, setting it to the side.

  Just like the kitchen notebooks, the cover of the journal was made of rustic leather. Unlike the others, this one was marked Céleste. I stroked the cover, rubbing my fingertips over the grain of the leather, wondering what I’d find inside the journal’s pages.

  “Did you find it, ma chérie?” Grand-mère called out.

  “Yes, Grand-mère,” I said, returning to her side, my hands trembling.

  “Sit down next to me. We’re going to read it together, but only one or two pages a day. I’m afraid that’s all I can handle,” she said, pausing. “Sophie, I love you with all of my heart. I may not have made the best decisions in the past, but I did whatever I could to protect our family—some of my actions were unspeakable, but I think, once you have the full story, forgivable.”

  My palms went damp as I traced the l
etters of my mother’s name with my fingers, and, after a deep inhale and exhale, I opened the book. On the left side of the page there were two grainy black-and-white childhood pictures of my mother mounted into the book with triangular photo edges. She wore white underwear and danced in the garden. On the right-hand pages were journal entries. My voice shook as I read the first one.

  18 April, 1980

  My sweet Céleste—

  Strawberries are in season! It’s a warm, beautiful day—around 25 degrees in the sun—and the Gariguettes are ripe and ready for picking, but you’ve already discovered that, ma puce, haven’t you? Soon the Charlottes, my sweet favorites, will follow. When they are ripe, we’ll pick and eat them together. For now, I’m just enjoying watching you from the kitchen window.

  You have just ripped off your flowered sundress, the one with the poppies that matches my apron, and you are running around the garden in your white underwear, the ones with the lace trim on the bottom. Bright red juice drips off your face and chest from the Gariguettes you’ve been stuffing into your mouth. You are spinning and turning, whirling with your arms outstretched to the sun.

  A dragonfly just zipped over your head. He’s the size of my hand and, from what I can tell, sapphire blue. His wings sparkle and flutter. You stop twirling and try to catch him. He flies by your astonished face. And, as you laugh, you start dancing again. Call me crazy, but I think the dragonfly is joining in with your whirly-twirly ways.

  I want to capture this moment forever. Such freedom is a feeling I’ve never experienced, the way you’re blowing with the wind, your arms swaying in the breeze. Sometimes I feel enchained. But this is the life I chose. Or perhaps this life chose me. Or maybe I wasn’t given a choice? But on days like today, just watching you, I realize what a wonderful life I have. And, Céleste, I want you to have choices—the choices I’ve never had.

  Tonight, for your dessert, I’ll make a crème brûlée with the Gariguette strawberries from the garden. It’s one of your favorites—at least this week.