The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

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The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 21

by Samantha Vérant


  “You didn’t have relations with him?”

  “Aside from friendship, no. We had separate bedrooms,” I said, driving my point in. “You saw him and his partner over Christmas.”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “And to think I was a bit jealous,” he said. “I thought one of those men was your boyfriend.”

  I let out an awkward donkey-like laugh.

  Rémi pulled into a parking lot marked Esquirol, right in Toulouse’s centre-ville. I sat in the car for a few moments, trying to catch my breath, until he opened the door and helped me jump out of the truck. I took his hand and hopped out, only to misjudge my balance and land straight into his chest. He smelled like the woods, cedar and musk. He raised a flirtatious eyebrow as I pushed myself away, flushing with embarrassment.

  We ambled up the steps, making our way to Rue d’Alsace-Lorraine, the main shopping drag. There must have been hundreds of people rushing down the street, all carrying bags filled to the brim, which I found odd. “It’s les soldes” (the sales), explained Rémi. “The stores hold them twice a year in France—right after Christmas in January and in July.” He took my hand, pulling me. “Regarde, a shoe store. You’ll get a good deal.”

  As we entered the shop, all eyes turned on us—men, women, and young girls, mouths agape. Probably because Rémi was so damn hot. He pointed to a pair of over-the-knee boots with four-inch heels. “Those are very nice,” he said. “I can see you in them.”

  “Completely inappropriate for life in Champvert,” I responded. They were so sexy I could only imagine what he was thinking about because I was doing it, too. I cleared my throat and made a beeline to a pair of more practical boots with a flat heel, black—riding boots. Normally €300, they’d been marked down to €150. A salesgirl came over and I asked for my size. In minutes, they were on my feet. “I’ll take them,” I said.

  Rémi was over at the register paying before I could stop him. I caught up with him.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder.

  “It’s what friends do,” he said. “Plus, I had them throw your old boots away.”

  “You hated them that much?”

  He nodded his head. “EIles étaient méga moches.”

  “Méga moches?”

  “Not just ugly, but super ugly,” he said. “I believe I did you a favor.”

  “Merci,” I said with a laugh, wondering if I should air-kiss his cheeks.

  “Ce n’était rien.” (It was nothing.) “On y va. I have much to show you.”

  We exited the shop into swarms of people and the energy was exactly what I’d needed, although, with the crowds, I felt myself longing for the quiet of Champvert. Still, it was nice to know that if I needed a dose of the city, Toulouse was spitting distance away.

  We traversed narrow streets flanked by beautiful buildings with iron balconies and carved wooden doors, finally arriving at our destination—a large square surrounding a bevy of cafés, where the outside terraces heated with lamps were filled with people eating and drinking, facing an enormous brick and limestone neoclassical building adorned with impressive sculptures.

  “This is Place du Capitole,” said Rémi, pointing. “The big buildings over there house the hôtel de ville, the mayor’s office, and the opera. Do you know why they call Toulouse ‘La Ville Rose’?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Because of all the pink brick buildings,” he said. “Tu as faim?”

  I wasn’t hungry just yet. “Not really,” I said.

  “Good, because we are not eating here. I have a special place I want to take you. But first we will visit the Basilica of Saint-Sernin, one of the largest Romanesque structures in the world.”

  “You make an excellent tour guide,” I said.

  “What can I say?” he replied. “I’m a very good friend.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and began to walk away. He looked over his shoulder as I stood in the center of the Occitan cross, one of the symbols of the region, not moving. “Are you coming, Sophie?”

  * * *

  Our morning ended at Marché Victor Hugo, at one of the restaurants over the market. We sat across from one another in silence, me looking at the menu.

  “What do you want?” asked Rémi.

  Well, that was a loaded question. I couldn’t focus on the menu because I was looking at his beautiful lips and wondering how they’d feel pressed onto mine. I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to be “just friends” with Rémi, and the lustful feelings I was fighting were confusing me beyond belief.

  “Sophie,” said Rémi. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  After a very awkward lunch with me staring at Rémi and vice versa, we meandered through the market at Victor Hugo, filled with butchers, cheese, fish, and vegetable vendors, along with quite a few bakers. He bought a few things—a roast beef and some vegetables. We stopped in front of a pâtisserie and Rémi pointed to some cakes.

  “Have you ever had a galette des rois?”

  “No,” I said. “What is it?”

  “It’s a tradition in France,” he said. “On January sixth, which is today, we celebrate the Epiphany, when the baby Jesus was presented to the Three Wise Men. In the past, the cake was cut into portions, plus one. This extra slice was known as the part du pauvre, the slice given to the needy. After that, under the reign of Louis XIV, une fève, a small porcelain figurine depicting Mary or another nativity figurine, is hidden inside the cake. Whoever finds the fève is crowned queen or king for the day, the paper crown supplied by the local pâtisserie. We have two choices—the brioche flavored with fleur d’oranger or stuffed with frangipane. Which one would you like to try?”

  “Frangipane,” I said, loving this tradition and wondering why my mother had never told me about it.

  “But you can’t eat it now,” he said.

  “Why? We didn’t have dessert and that looks delicious.”

  “I was hoping you’d join us for dinner,” he said, casting his eyes downward. “Lola keeps talking about her tatie Sophie. I’m cooking.” He pointed to his shopping bags. “Do you like rôti de bœuf?”

  “What about Grand-mère?” I asked.

  “I’ve already cleared my plan with her.”

  Of course he had. I was being set up again. And this was fine by me. I was feeling back to my old self, and I didn’t want this day to end.

  24

  too much, too soon, too fast

  Rémi’s house was quaint and charming, and I remembered visiting it as a kid. An old stone farmhouse with wooden beams, it held none of the glitz or glamour of the château, and I immediately felt at ease. He’d obviously done some renovations since I’d last been here, opening up the downstairs completely—American style. Rustic. Charming. Simple.

  We stepped over dolls and toys, and after a quick tour of Rémi’s five-bedroom home, he ushered me into the large kitchen, complete with a beautiful red Lacanche stove. The dogs, D’Artagnan and Aramis, slept on the floor in rather luxurious burgundy velvet dog beds with a brocade fleur-de-lis print. The dogs rolled on their backs, tongues lolling, wanting belly scratches. Happily, I obliged.

  Rémi lit a fire, put on classical music, and opened a bottle of wine. As he handed me a glass, I realized there was something missing. “Where’s Lola?” I asked.

  “She’s at her music class.” He eyed his wrist. “Laetitia will be bringing her home any minute. It’s only a bit past five. I hope you don’t mind eating so early. We usually eat at six.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, taking his arm and eyeing the mark on his watch. He wore a gold Rolex with a black dial.

  “Circa 1980s. It was your grandfather’s. Grand-mère Odette gave it to me for my twentieth birthday,” he said. “Does it bother you that she gave it me?”

  “No,” I said. He’d bee
n here for Grand-mère. I hadn’t. “You deserve it. And more.”

  “Go, relax. Sit on the couch,” he said. “I’m going to get started on dinner.”

  As I watched Rémi cook, peeling potatoes and chopping, I thought that while I may be flipped-out with the magnitude of the château, I could grow to like it here. I could get used to this. To a life with him. But his situation was far from simple. A smiling photo of a woman on the mantel stared down at me, and I could only assume this was the famous Anaïs. While she wasn’t my spitting image, in a way, she did resemble me. She was thin. She had black hair. She had a hard look about her. I tucked my knees into my chest, thinking about how I was in way over my head.

  Just then, the door opened. The dogs barked, and when Lola saw me, she squealed with joy. She toddled over to me and jumped into my lap. She latched her arms around my neck, nearly pulling me over. “Tatie Sophie!”

  “My little Lola,” I said, breathing in her strawberry and sunshine scents.

  Laetitia followed her in. “She did wonderful today! I think our little girl is a budding violinist.”

  Her gaze met my curious one. This woman seemed so familiar to me, and I couldn’t place her until I recalled seeing her at the Christmas market. I knew she was older, midfifties, by my guess, I just didn’t remember her being so pretty—the kind of Frenchwoman carrying a certain je ne sais quoi. She took off her coat, hung it on a hook, and fluffed up her chestnut-colored hair. Her warm, chocolate-colored eyes locked onto mine. “Sophie, I assume?”

  “C’est moi,” I said. “Nice to meet you. It’s Laetitia, right?”

  After swapping the required air-kisses, she grabbed the bottle of wine and sat down next to me, pouring herself a glass. “I’ve been dying to meet you.” She tilted her head toward Rémi. “He always smiles at Lola, but not much else. I’m thrilled he’s no longer keeping us a secret. It’s not good for a child.”

  “No,” I said. Did she say “us”? “It isn’t.”

  “Of course, we often visit with your grand-mère, or she comes here, but it’s been difficult with her health. Is she doing better?”

  “She has some good days, some bad,” I said. “I’m hoping she pulls through.”

  “It must have been hard for you, coming back to all this after being gone for so long.”

  “It’s been a challenge,” I said. How much did this woman, this stranger, know about my life? It was disconcerting.

  “À table,” exclaimed Rémi.

  It was time for dinner.

  “Let’s eat,” said Laetitia. She commandeered Lola from my arms. “This one is a gourmand, and her papa cooks wonderful meals, doesn’t he?” She tickled Lola’s tummy.

  “Oui,” said Lola as she squealed.

  “You’ll sit there, Sophie,” said Laetitia, pointing.

  The table, like the house, was rustic—a long slab of mahogany wood. Simple. Charming. I took my seat as Rémi brought the dishes over: potatoes cooked in duck fat, the roast beef, and a salad with pan-seared foie gras. He winked at me as he carved the roast. “We’re doing it American style for our American guest. How do you like the temperature of your meat?”

  “Saignant” (Rare), I said. I liked mine bloody.

  “Phew. If you said otherwise, I’d wonder if you were really born French.” His dimples puckered his cheeks.

  “See?” said Laetitia. “He’s smiling. I’m so happy to see him like this.”

  I wondered why a nanny would care so much for an employer’s happiness. I supposed they’d just become close, him being a single father needing somebody to take care of his child. I stared at Laetitia, my mother coming to mind. If she were alive, my mother would have been about the same age, maybe a little younger. Her eyes were a liquid brown, the color like maple syrup, and filled with kindness, not darkness. If my mother hadn’t been so sick, would she have been filled with warmth and light like Laetitia?

  “I hope you like garlic,” said Rémi as he carved the meat. “I stuffed the roast with quite a few cloves.”

  Over a conversation about what we’d done that day and Lola’s music lesson, we finished a delicious dinner, and I was impressed with Rémi’s cooking skills. The roast was perfectly cooked. The potatoes were moist, delectable, and savory, and the salad was the perfect accompaniment. I’d forgotten how good pan-seared foie gras was.

  Rémi brought out the dessert and Lola clapped her hands. “Galette des rois! Galette des rois!”

  As Rémi served the galette, Laetitia winked at me. “She really likes her sweets. All she’s been talking about is your chocolat chaud. She told me ‘non’ the other day, ‘it’s not like Tatie Sophie’s.’”

  Rémi placed a slice of cake in front of me. “We’re going to be like savage Americans. It’s okay to eat this dessert with your hands.”

  I took a bite and my eyes went wide as I cringed with pain. “I almost broke a tooth! What in the world is in this dessert?”

  “I think Sophie found la fève,” said Laetitia with a grin.

  I spit out a small porcelain hedgehog into my hand. It was blue. “I thought religious figurines were supposed to be hidden in the cake?”

  “Commercialization,” said Laetitia. “All sorts of branded characters. Mickey Mouse, Les Lapins Crétins, you name it.”

  Rémi placed a gold paper crown on my head. “You’re the queen,” he said. “At least for one day.”

  “La reine, Tatie Sophie,” squealed Lola. She clapped her hands with delight. “Can I be a princess?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “She takes after her mom,” said Laetitia, squinting at me. “You really do remind me of her in a way.”

  I blinked like Agnès—repeatedly. “You knew Anaïs?”

  “Why, of course,” said Laetitia. “I’m Anaïs’s mother. Did Rémi not tell you?”

  My eyelashes had a life of their own. I couldn’t stop blinking.

  “I may have forgotten to mention it,” he said, like it was no big deal. “But now she knows.”

  I jerked my head, the crown falling onto the floor. I didn’t know why, but this news came as quite the shock.

  “Rémi needed help. I moved in, wanting to be close to my granddaughter,” said Laetitia. “And, on that note, it was lovely to meet you, Sophie. I’ve got to get the little one bathed and into bed,” she said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

  Laetitia scooped up Lola. “Give your tatie Sophie a bisou,” she said.

  Lola leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

  “It was so nice to meet you, Laetitia,” I said, grabbing my coat. “Rémi, I’ve got to go check on my grand-mère. Thanks for today. And thanks for dinner,” I said. I lifted up a foot. “And thanks for the boots. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Sophie—wait,” said Rémi. “I can drive you.”

  “That’s okay. I can walk. It’s not far. And you’ve done enough already. Really, perfect day. Perfect meal.”

  “But it’s dark out. What about the sangliers? They forage at night and in the early morning. They can be quite dangerous.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said. “I have to get back to Grand-mère.”

  “It’s not an option.” He grabbed his keys and his coat. “I’m driving you.”

  I didn’t say a word in the truck, just stared straight ahead. Two minutes later, we pulled in front of the château. I shook my head, irritated. “Don’t you think it might have been a nice idea if you told me Laetitia was Anaïs’s mom before I met her, Rémi?”

  “I really don’t see what the problem is. She’s a very kind woman, and I don’t know what I’d do without her. She has every right to be in Lola’s life.”

  “She does. But I don’t like surprises, especially important ones,” I said, jumping out of the truck and storming up to the château’s main entry, standing there for a moment, waitin
g to hear him drive away. Rémi snuck up behind me. He gripped my arms and whirled me around to face him.

  “I’ll keep it in mind that you don’t like surprises,” he said. And then he pulled me toward him and he kissed me. Chills shimmied down my spine. Fireworks exploded in my brain. I could almost hear my heartbeat, throbbing and beating in my ribs. When he pulled away, my body trembled. The kiss was supernatural—like nothing I’d ever experienced, and better than I imagined. Rémi whispered, “I’ve been wanting to do that for thirteen years.”

  “What happened to moving slow, Rémi?” I spluttered.

  “You said there was a chance for us.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s really holding you back from taking it?”

  I swallowed one gulp at a time. I had the opportunity to tell him the truth. “It’s the stars.”

  “Stars? Look up, Sophie, we have plenty of stars here.”

  I sat down on the front stoop. “Not those stars. Michelin stars. It’s been my lifelong dream to become part of the one percent of women at the the helm of a starred restaurant. I need to clear my name in New York. It was destroyed.”

  Rémi ran his hands through his hair. “Bon Dieu, Sophie. You’d trade in the possibility of falling in love for reigniting a destroyed career?”

  This was absolutely insane. He was moving too fast for me—way too fast. I opened the front door to the château. Rémi’s hand swept out, closing it. Although I was definitely developing feelings for him, and we had a magnetic physical attraction, my head and my heart, while pounding wildly, weren’t quite open to the concept. “Love? We’ve only just met again.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I said the possibility of love. And if you want to reach for the stars, you could do that here.”

  “I feel like everything is just being handed to me on a silver platter,” I said, opting not to add, “including you.”

 

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