“I’m just worried,” I said, trying to hold myself together. “Grand-mère isn’t doing well. She had a setback.”
“Merde,” he said, his face paling. He turned abruptly to exit the kitchen. “I need to visit with her.”
I grabbed his shoulder. His strong, muscled shoulder—my hand quickly recoiled. “Rémi, I wouldn’t. Agnès gave her a sedative. We can’t disturb her now.”
“But I have to do something,” he said.
“You can help me, if you want to.” I rocked back and forth on my heels, anxious. “I’m making dinner for her, something healthy to keep Grand-mère strong. It’s a healing potimarron velouté. Do you know how to cook?”
His beautiful lips pinched together. “Of course. I was under Grand-mère’s tutelage for years. But she never taught me how to murder a squash. What on earth did you learn from her over the summers?”
I had to laugh—at myself, at this situation. I also had to remind myself I couldn’t fall for Rémi. Out of the question. But we could be friends. “Grab a cutting board,” I said. “And cut the squash. I’d like to serve her and Agnès bowls made from the roasted squash, so after we cut the tops off, they’ll have to be carefully de-meated and deseeded.”
He pointed to the cutting board, to the seeds splattered everywhere. “What about the victim?”
“Perfectly roast-able, but definitely not a bowl.”
“Besides watching you murder squash, I’m looking forward to seeing your other skills.” He picked up my knife from the counter and handed it back to me. Our hands brushed, giving me chills. I wondered what skills he had.
I walked to the sink and rinsed the knife off, looking over my shoulder. Rémi smiled and held up the squash. “I’m waiting for more instructions, Chef.”
Stop smiling at me like that.
“The leeks, carrots, and onions need to be chopped,” I said with too much force.
“What are you going to do?” he asked skeptically.
“I’m heating up the ovens and looking for Parmesan. And I’m making the other soup I’ll expect you to taste. You’re going to be my guinea pig and tell me which one’s better. Okay?”
He eyed the notebook, still open to Grand-mère’s recipe. “Parmesan? It isn’t listed here.”
“What can I say? I need to get creative. For Grand-mère, I’m making Parmesan crisps and I’m making the ginger-infused lobster for the other dish. With homemade stock, of course.”
“Why another soup? Isn’t one enough?”
“No. Same idea. Different recipes. I want to follow O’Shea’s. I need to know which one is better. One soup is for Grand-mère, the other one is for me and my peace of mind.”
“I understand. It’s bizarre, but I understand,” he said, holding back his laughter. “Let’s do this.”
Over the next hour, Rémi and I worked together, me supremely impressed with his knife skills, him listening to my every instruction and calling me Boss Woman. Sometimes we’d bump into one another, or our hands would touch, and my heart would feel like it was going to leap out of my chest. But no. Rémi and me couldn’t happen. I couldn’t, wouldn’t let it happen. Still, fighting my attraction toward him was going to be so damn hard. Why did he have to be so good-looking and know exactly what to say to make me laugh?
Finally, I pulled out the immersion blender. Two large pots stood in front of me. It was go time. “Okay, Rémi, I’m seasoning one with O’Shea’s recipe. And adding in the lobster,” I said. I ladled a spoonful into a bowl. “Taste it.”
He grabbed a spoon and swallowed back a mouthful. “I like the addition of the lobster, but the velouté has no flavor. I don’t like it. He served it like this?”
“He did.”
“What got you fired?”
“Adding in more spices to the velouté, upon Eric’s instruction.”
“Do it,” he said, and I did. He tasted the soup again and looked up. “It’s even worse. Why do I taste so much cumin? It really overpowers everything. I’m really hoping the other velouté is better,” he said. “For Grand-mère’s sake.”
“I hope so, too,” I said, ladling another bowl. I topped it off with the Parmesan crisp. “Voilà. Tell me what you think.”
Rémi took the bowl and took a bite. His head dropped back and he closed his eyes with pleasure. “It makes me fall in love with the chef who cooked this,” he said, and my jaw went slack. “But it’s missing something.”
“What? What’s it missing?” I asked, panicked, hoping I hadn’t messed up.
“The lobster. But with more orange sauce and less ginger. And maybe flambé the tails with a bit of Armagnac. She loves lobster prepared like that.”
“You don’t think that would be too much? It’s alcohol.”
“Non,” he said. “Alcohol burns down. Try it.”
I lit a match and flambéed the lobster tails, the flames heating my body for a quick second. Or was it Rémi’s close proximity?
Rémi dipped the spoon into the pot, and as he fed me a bite, our eyes locked for a moment. I had to close mine. He was right. The soup was beyond delicious. So was he—his long eyelashes, the golden sunbursts speckling his caramel-colored eyes. And, damn, those perfect bow-shaped lips, offset by dimples when he smiled. I couldn’t control the blush creeping across my cheeks.
Did I just lick the spoon your beautiful mouth was just on?
My entire body sparked, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. With Eric, his mouth was like a sucking octopus, one with very bad halitosis from smoking too many cigarettes. I’d never been that giddy girl, the kind who fretted and fawned over a man. But, when I looked at Rémi’s lips, I was becoming that silly girl. I needed to pull myself together.
“Did we just create a new recipe together?” I asked.
“I believe we did.”
Rémi pulled me in for les bises and my knees nearly crumbled. “I’ve got to head home. Can you spare some for me, Lola, and Laetitia?”
Right.
“Sure, there’s plenty,” I said. After scrambling around for a container, I handed it over.
“Merci, Sophie, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at nine.”
Rémi left and I stood there for a moment, pushing back indecent thoughts and shaking my head. After making sure everything was perfect, tasting it again, I ladled the velouté into the roasted potimarron bowls, added the lobster and Parmesan crisps, and set them on a tray.
Please love this, Grand-mère. I need your approval.
Anxious, I knocked on Grand-mère’s door and Agnès opened it. She eyed the soup.
“Wow,” she said. “I was expecting something wonderful, but not pure magic.”
“Do you think this is too much for her?”
“It’s perfect. She’s stable, but not one mention of whatever you were discussing before, please.” Agnès paused. “Do you want to feed her? Or should I?”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“I’ll have to stay by her side.”
“I understand,” I said.
Agnès set up the hospital tray, placing it over my grand-mère’s lap. After setting Grand-mère’s meal on it, Agnès sat on a chair and dug right in. Grand-mère opened her eyes. She looked at me and then at the velouté. “You created this?” she asked. “It’s beautiful. I hope it tastes as good as it looks.”
“Yes, we made this for you. Rémi helped.” I picked up a spoon, holding it out with a napkin placed under it so it wouldn’t drip onto her dressing gown.
Her mouth puckered and opened like a baby bird’s. Strange, how I was once the child and she used to feed me. This role reversal was bizarre and unnerved me so badly it broke my heart. I reminded myself I needed to be strong for her. I sucked in a breath and, trying to keep my hands from shaking and spilling orange soup on her nightgown, I fed her a spoonful. Grand-mère licked her lips.
“Oh, ma chérie, this is absolutely wonderful. I taste each and every ingredient. Oh, lavender. Turmeric? The lobster. Wonderful! How on earth did you bring all these flavors together?”
“I learned everything I know from you,” I said. “Honestly, cooking school was a cakewalk.”
“I could never have created anything like this,” she said. “You are far more creative than I am.”
“This is a soup,” exclaimed Agnès. “A soup? And it’s the best meal I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
“I concur with Agnès,” said Grand-mère, and a deep pride set in. “Now, tell me. You said Rémi helped you? I take it you’ve settled your differences?”
“We did,” I said. “And we’re friends again. He thinks it’s a good idea for me to get away from the château,” I said. “See life outside the gates. If that’s okay with you. Of course, if you need me, I won’t go.”
“The château isn’t a prison,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not dying any day soon. Stop digging my grave and get out, have some fun.”
This was an order.
“But not too much fun,” she said with a soft cackle.
I blushed. “Grand-mère, we’re just friends. He only wants to show me around.”
“I see,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m glad the most important people in my world are just friends.” She opened up her mouth. “More of this deliciousness, s’il te plaît.” Spoonful after spoonful, as I fed her, I hoped she couldn’t read my mind, because I was thinking about Rémi and how I really didn’t want to be “just friends.”
23
in and out of the friend zone
After a very sleepless night, I woke up at six in the morning. Every fiber of my being was telling me to stay far, far away from Rémi—to keep him at arm’s length, to accept his friendship. My dream, the one I was controlling in my head, said otherwise.
“Yes, he has a child,” one voice would say. The other voice said, “Sophie, you need to see if something is there—look at his lips, his gorgeous kissable lips.” And then the other voice said, “Sophie, your life is still in the crapper. You can’t bring them into this.” I scrambled out from underneath my covers, feeling like I was on the verge of going schizophrenic.
Nerves set in until I reminded myself this wasn’t a date. Rémi wanted to show me life outside the château. That was all.
I dressed, pulling on a green cashmere sweater, jeans without holes in them, and my black woolly boots. Casual. Cool, calm, and collected, my hair blown dry and down. A little mascara. A little blush. I was me. Just me.
Rémi, as promised, waited for me in the foyer at nine a.m. He looked gorgeous, wearing black slacks, a gray sweater, and a fabulous steel-gray cashmere coat—like he’d just stepped off the pages of GQ magazine.
This is not a date.
“Wow, you should wear green more. It brings out the color of your beautiful eyes,” he said, and I smiled bashfully. “But those boots? Did you steal them off a homeless gitan? Or a babushka?”
“What’s wrong with my boots?” I asked, a bit insulted.
“Everything.”
I looked down at my feet. “Should I change?”
“No, I don’t think you should change. I think you’re wonderful just the way you are—even in those ugly boots.”
He’d just complimented and insulted me at the same time. I liked it. “Do you always say what’s on your mind?”
“Not always, but I’m French. You are family. I’m allowed to tease you,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”
Family. Right.
“Where are we going?”
“I was thinking of taking you to Cordes-sur-Ciel, voted one of the prettiest villages in France, and afterward taking la route des bastides, where medieval villages thrive, to show you a little history, but then I thought you’d like to be in the city.”
“Toulouse?” I asked.
“Oui, Toulouse,” he said. “Have you ever been?”
“Aside from the hospital, no,” I said.
“Toulouse it is then,” he said. “It’s only forty-five minutes away. On y va?”
“Yes, let’s go.”
“Maybe you can find some new boots,” he said, opening the door.
As we walked to the truck, I looked down at my boots again. They were ten years old and way out of style—just like the rest of my wardrobe. I needed more than shoes. I needed more than a new wardrobe. I needed to take charge of my life. But one baby step at a time. “How do you feel about shopping, Rémi?”
His laugh came hard. “I’ll help you find new shoes. And jeans without holes in them.”
“I threw those jeans away,” I said, and lightly slugged his arm. “My style isn’t that bad.”
Rémi held the passenger door open for me. I hopped in and he closed it. I liked this Rémi. I wanted to know more about him. I did share a lot of secrets with him as a child, like me searching for my birth father. I remember lying in the fields with him, hidden among the wildflowers, telling him about my dreams of becoming a chef. Funny, I didn’t remember him sharing anything with me; he just listened with his head tilted toward the sky. Maybe he’d talk to me—really talk to me.
“Rémi, can you tell me about Anaïs?”
“What do you want to know about her?” he asked.
“It must have been so hard to lose her,” I said, really wanting to know everything.
“Bien sûr. It was terrible.” He blew out the air between his beautiful lips, pffff, and his shoulders slumped. “I’d like to be honest with you.”
I nodded for him to carry on.
“When Anaïs fell pregnant, Grand-mère, of course, wasn’t happy about it and she told me I needed to take responsibility for my actions. We decided I’d marry Anaïs so the baby could take my name. My plan was to divorce her after Lola was born, to take care of them both financially and to be a part of Lola’s life as her father.”
This didn’t sit well with me. “Didn’t you love Anaïs?” I said, thinking she must have loved him. Did he just leave her high and dry?
“No, Sophie, we were together, but we were not in love,” he said matter-of-factly. “She only agreed to marry me for the same reasons I just explained.” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. “When Lola was born and Anaïs died, my world changed. I changed.”
His statements weren’t computing. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve only been in love with one woman—my first love, a girl I thought I’d never get over, but eventually did. Or I thought I had.” Rémi brushed a strand of loose hair away from his eyes. “Sophie,” he said, glancing at me. “It was you, and I’d like to get to know you again.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Of course, I’d been thinking the same thing, too, but words wouldn’t come to me. I narrowed my eyes into a mock glare, my heart racing. “Why would you ever want to put up with the likes of me?”
Rémi laughed. “You don’t put up with my crap—you never did. I remember when you dunked me in the lake. All those memories, all the fun we had, rushed back when you lobbed me in the head with that snowball.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Taking you to Toulouse was my way of getting you alone,” he said sheepishly. “I wanted to know if you think there could be a chance. For us?”
“Oh,” I said, and his posture crumbled.
“That’s not the answer I’d hoped for.” His shoulders, the broad ones I’d been staring at with lust, caved.
“Just give me a minute to gather my thoughts,” I said. “What you just said was completely unexpected.”
My neck prickled, thinking about what I’d learned in Grand-mère’s diaries. Until I had all my answers about my mother, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, if I was even staying in Champvert, although I now had another reason to stick around. I was defini
tely developing feelings for Rémi and he was helping me move on from thoughts of Eric and New York, I wasn’t sure if it was just the idea of him, the fantasy I’d created in my head like a perfect recipe. Even though the sparks of the Rémi I’d known when I was a young girl flashed in my memories, in a way it was almost as if my grandmother had been grooming him for me over the years—taking a farm boy and turning him into a prince, an Elijah Doolittle. Part of me wanted him to go back to being Mean Rémi; it was easier then and I wouldn’t have to fight my feelings for him.
“Sophie?” said Rémi. “I just poured out my heart and you’re just sitting there silently.”
I clasped my hands together, head down, voice low. “There’s a chance, but I think we should take things slow.”
His beautiful bow-shaped lips curved into a sexy smile, flashing white teeth. “Slow? I can do that.”
“I mean really, really slow,” I said. “We’re starting off as friends.”
“Just friends?” he questioned, and I nodded. “I guess I can do that, but it will be hard, considering how much I want to kiss you right now.”
I focused on his perfect jawline. No kidding.
“So, friend,” he said with a grin. “I’ve told you all about my shameful past. How many boyfriends have you had?”
“One,” I said, cringing as I thought of him. “Eric.”
“Impossible,” he said, sucking in his breath. “You’re so beautiful you must have had to fight the boys off with sticks.”
“It’s completely possible and completely true,” I said. Damn it. He’d complimented me again. “What can I say?”
“This Eric? Was he the chef who set you up? And the reason you murdered a potimarron? The velouté thickens—”
“Look, I really don’t want to talk about Eric,” I said, my shoulders tensing. “But since we’re telling stories, I will share one of mine. I had a fake fiancé in New York.”
“Fake?” questioned Rémi. “J’ai mal compris.” (I don’t understand.)
“Walter is my best friend, and he is gay.” Rémi’s lip curled with confusion and he motioned for me to carry on. “I was only pretending to be his fiancée because he was petrified to come out to his parents. We lived together for two years.”
The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 20