The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  “And that’s a bad thing?” he asked, looking at me like I was nuts.

  “Yes. No,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  “You need to figure out what you want,” he said, turning on his heel. He sauntered down the steps and headed back to the truck.

  I yelled after him. “Which is exactly what I told you. I need to figure everything out. It’s why I told you I wanted to move slow.”

  “So you’re just going to ignore your feelings?”

  “No, Rémi, I just need time to sort them out.”

  25

  vindication and perspiration

  In the morning, I wanted to clear my head from a sleepless night spent tossing and turning over Rémi, Grand-mère’s health, and the stress of taking over the château. I was about to head out to the greenhouse—that sanctuary of goodness, filled with calming lavender—when my cell phone buzzed. I pulled it out from my pocket, shocked to see Cendrillon on caller ID. Odd. It was one thirty in the morning in New York. My finger shook as I accepted the call.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice just above a whisper.

  “Sophie?”

  I’d recognize his gruff voice in my sleep. “Chef,” I said, leaning against a stone wall in the gardens to retain my balance, preparing myself for an onslaught of threats. I stayed quiet, listening to the sound of his heavy breath and rubbing the nape of my neck.

  “Sophie, are you there? Do we have a bad connection?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “And I’m an overreacting hothead,” said O’Shea. “I owe you an enormous apology, and not just for calling at such a late hour.”

  Oh. My. God. Somebody must have fessed up. My hands shook and my jaw went slack. “I see,” I said, tilting my head toward the sky, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “I received an anonymous letter about you, Eric, and the star loss,” he said. “I wasn’t going to read it at first, but Bernadette insisted, practically forced it into my face. I don’t think she’s Eric’s biggest fan.”

  “No, she isn’t,” I said, wondering who had come to my defense and what their motives were.

  “At first I thought you sent the letter, but not with words like ‘dodgy wanker,’ ‘tosser,’ and ‘knobhead.’”

  I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. When Phillipa told me she’d been adamant about wanting to help me clear my name, I didn’t know she’d actually do something about it.

  “You know who sent it, don’t you?”

  “I have a pretty good idea who wrote it,” I said, “but, I assure you, I didn’t know about it.”

  “Intrigued, I read the contents of this strange letter, sent from Bibury, England, to the brigade, and most of them laughed it off—except for Miguel. He came into my office, saying he needed to confess or he was going straight to hell. I didn’t realize he was so religious.”

  O’Shea cleared his throat. “He admitted that he’d seen and overheard Eric and Alex conspiring against you, that Eric told you to spice the velouté. He also told me there were rumors circulating around town that Cendrillon may lose a star. Those two douchebags took the opportunity to sabotage you. I couldn’t fire Eric, considering he left a few months ago to start a flagship restaurant to call his own.”

  “Eric wanted me to work for him. I said no, Chef,” I said. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t get a chance to.”

  “That’s my fault,” said O’Shea. “Like I said, I’m a hothead.” He let out a huff. “I fired that bastard Alex on the spot.”

  “Good.”

  “With that said, the chef de cuisine position is yours if you want it. Can you come in today to discuss?”

  “I can’t.” My heartbeat quickened. Wait, he was actually offering me the promotion? My dream? “I’m in France.”

  “France? With your grandmother? When are you coming back?”

  The barn swallows—les hirondelles—swooped in the sky in a joyous, orchestrated dance. The sun beat down on my head and dizziness set in. There was no way I could leave Champvert now—no matter how much my heart ached to do so. The chac-chac-chacs of the magpies reminded me of that.

  “About that. I’m not sure. She’s taken ill and I’m helping her out here until she gets better.”

  “Look, I can hold down the kitchen for a while, months even. I’m planning on getting everything back on track. And, if you saw it, don’t worry about the article in the Times.”

  “I did. See it,” I said, not wanting to think about it.

  “I’m sending in my retraction,” he said. “I have more clout in the culinary world than Eric does. He’s a talentless, disloyal twit, and I’ll take care of this. I’m going to clear your name and bring him down.” O’Shea laughed a hearty laugh. “Blackbird may have the shortest opening in history. I’m sorry those two boneheads did this to you.”

  “Me, too, Chef. Me, too.” A happy tear slid down my cheek.

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper like that, Sophie. I’m ashamed of my behavior. I promise. It won’t happen again.” His voice sounded pained. I felt terrible. “So, will you think about my offer?”

  “I will, but I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York.”

  “Take as much time as you need,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for your response.”

  “Thank you for calling, Chef,” I said and hung up, sinking to my knees.

  I surveyed the grounds, now coming back to life. The buds on the magnolia trees were already tinged pink. One day soon, the flowers would bloom, just like I, in a way, was blooming, too. Could I leave all of this behind? Still, if I took him up on his offer, I’d be back to telling O’Shea’s culinary story, not mine. I didn’t know if I should be celebrating or what. Part of me was happy, and the other part of me felt extraordinarily guilty for even thinking about leaving Champvert.

  My grand-mère couldn’t die. If she did, she was counting on me to take over the château, and I couldn’t do it without her. All of this was just being given to me. I hadn’t worked for it. In addition to the reservation system and the two kitchens, there was so much to manage here. The château made and sold the honey and confitures to outside vendors. Add in the wine business, and it was far too much for one person to handle without going crazy. At least I knew what waited for me at Cendrillon—the long hours and sexual harassment were a cakewalk compared to the stress that came with the château. I needed to talk with Grand-mère. Now. I needed the answers to the rest of my questions.

  I took in a deep breath, knocked, and entered her room. I didn’t say a word, just stood there trying to figure out what I was going to say.

  “Ma chérie,” she said, looking up from her magazine, “you look out of sorts. Is something wrong?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve been vindicated. Chef O’Shea just called me. He received a letter that cleared my name,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

  “I see,” she said pointedly. “I’m assuming O’Shea’s apology came with a job offer. Are you thinking of moving back to New York?”

  I shrugged. “I need time to process everything that’s been going on.”

  “What do you need to process?”

  For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I just held my breath. But it was now or never. She seemed to be doing well. I wanted answers. I whipped around and met her gaze. “To make my decision, I need to know why Mother left Champvert and never looked back.”

  The silence that followed my statement was punctuated with heavy breaths—mine.

  “I knew this day would come,” she said, struggling to pull out her diary from her nightstand. “Sit down next to me,” she commanded, and I did. “Forward a few pages. No more. Now read.” Her eyes met mine. “Yes, here’s where we shall begin.” She inhaled deeply. “I’ve been dreading this day.”

  My voice shook as I read the words.

  21 April, 1993

  Céleste—<
br />
  I’ve just gotten back from the doctor with you. You are pregnant and I am aghast. On the car ride home, you told me you wanted to have an abortion. That, my darling, will never happen. You’re not in the right frame of mind.

  Ta mère

  “‘Right frame of mind,’ Grand-mère?” I said, every bone in my body so tense I thought I’d crumble to pieces, to dust.

  “At the age of sixteen, Céleste was diagnosed with clinical depression. The doctor prescribed lithium to control these mood swings. When she fell pregnant with you, it got worse. I’ve always assumed that she stopped taking her medications when she did what she did.”

  Although my grandmother refrained from using the word “suicide,” this explained everything. Almost everything. But if she knew my mother was so sick, why didn’t she do anything about it? Why didn’t she save me from her and the misery I’d lived with?

  “She took me away from Champvert and I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I was too young, couldn’t even walk or talk. Why didn’t you try harder to take me away from her? She was sick.”

  I’d pointed the finger of blame at her and I couldn’t take my words back.

  “I tried. The courts ruled in her favor. This put another wedge in our relationship, as you can imagine. There is a file under the plank in my closet. You can read the judge’s ruling.” Grand-mère’s eyes filled with tears. “Taking you away from her would have killed her.”

  “But she killed herself,” I said, the memory of her blue and bloated in the tub flashing in my mind.

  “Ma chérie, she was sick long before you were born. Did you ever notice the glazed look in her eyes when she’d smile, as if she was never really there? The way her moods would switch from abnormal highs to severe lows?”

  When my mother was on an upswing, she was the belle of the ball. She’d take me shopping to buy clothes. Sometimes she’d brush my hair, telling me how beautiful I was. One time, she came home with seeds, dirt, and terra-cotta pots, with the thought that I’d like to plant a garden on our small terrace because I liked cooking so much. I did. On these good days, her eyes were clear and she was full of life. But her bad days were terrible. She’d hole up in her room with the curtains drawn, barely moving. Looking back, these days were marked when she lost out on an audition to an actress younger than her.

  “Keep reading,” said Grand-mère, squeezing her eyes shut. “There’s more you need to know.”

  14 July, 1993

  Céleste—

  Jean-Marc Bourret came by looking for you. I didn’t like the looks of him. He was dirty, unshaven, and not a proper fellow. You were in your room, sleeping. This pregnancy has been tough on you. You are always with morning sickness and on bed rest. Jean-Marc insisted that I wake you from your slumber. He told me that he was the father of your baby, and that he wanted to marry you.

  I told him to wait on the front steps. And then I grabbed my checkbook. He didn’t want to accept the check at first. He argued and pleaded to see you. And then he looked at the sum. Oh, you should have seen his smile, the glimmer in his eye as he surveyed the château. I told him there would be more coming for every year he stayed away from you. Of course he agreed. I suppose this is my confession. And I don’t feel bad about it. I did what was right for you. A marriage to the likes of him would never have worked. Today is Bastille Day. And I’ve just claimed your independence.

  Ta mère

  The notebook slipped from my hands. I rubbed my eyes. This couldn’t be real. The answer I’d been searching for half of my life just appeared on the page, right under my nose, written in Grand-mère Odette’s loopy handwriting. Although I now had some answers, more questions loomed. Rivulets of sweat dripped down my neck. Was this Jean-Marc Bourret really my father? Was he still in the area? If so, could I find him? Did I want to? My tears fell, smattering the notebook with tiny droplets. I’d been looking for truth and I’d found it. But sometimes the truth was hard to swallow, a jagged pill.

  “How much did you pay him?” I asked.

  “At the time, it held the equivalence to ten thousand euros.”

  “I can’t believe he took the money,” I said.

  “He did,” she said. “But he only cashed the first check.”

  My throat tightened. All this time, my grandmother had known who my father was and hadn’t told me. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “You’ve been keeping his identity a secret from me. Even if he is a money-grubbing jerk, I had a right to know.”

  “When you were a child, it wasn’t up to me to tell you who he was; it was your mother’s.”

  My nails dug into my palms. “But after that? After she died?”

  “You never asked me,” she said. “And it’s not exactly a conversation one has over the phone.”

  She had a logical answer for everything. If I was being honest with myself, she’d only been trying to protect me from a distance. And perhaps grandmothers did know best.

  She raised a frail hand. I took it in mine. “Ma chérie, we both know I’m in the process of dying. I may have a few days. I may have a week. Maybe a month. You have your answers. I got my last confession in before I transition over to the other side. Your mother tore my heart apart when she did what she did,” she said with a sob. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your father. I’m sorry for so many things. I need to put the past behind me. Isn’t that what you want so we can both move on with peace—not resentment or hate—in our hearts?”

  “I’d like that,” I said, wiping away my tears.

  “Me, too, my love, me, too.” Her customarily steady voice shook with vulnerability; I knew she was telling the truth.

  I spent the next few weeks with Grand-mère, looking through photo albums and talking about days gone by, and preparing her meals. We’d just finished eating our galettes, which were savory versions of crêpes, when she dabbed her napkin to her lips and said, “I have something else to show you. It’s the letter your mother wrote to me before she left this earth.”

  “She wrote you?” I asked, my heart thumping against my ribs. “Where is it?”

  “In my nightstand.”

  I scrambled over to the other side of the bed and opened the drawer, finding the letter immediately. Water droplets had turned the paper thin in some places—tearstains, either my grandmother’s or my mother’s.

  “Please don’t read it out loud,” said Grand-mère. “I know each and every word by heart.”

  Dear Mother,

  You and Father were right about everything. I want to be clear for Sophie, but it’s impossible through all the pain I’ve brought onto myself and onto her. Perhaps I should have followed your advice and stayed on my medications. But I never listened to you even when you were right. I should never have taken her from Champvert. It was selfish of me. The money I’ve received means nothing to me. I spend it on frivolous things and I haven’t taken care of my daughter. The truth of the matter is that Sophie takes care of me. I’m a failure—as a woman, as a mother, as a daughter. I’m sorry for all the harsh words we’ve exchanged over the years. I’m sorry for not listening to you. I’ve never hated you. I’ve always loved you. I was just too messed up in the head to see it. Something is wrong with me and I can’t fix it. So I’m doing something about it. Please take care of Sophie; she deserves better.

  All my love,

  Céleste

  My breathing slowed down. My mother loved me. She’d left a note. Her death hadn’t been my fault, like I’d thought all these years. I held up the letter, waving it, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Of all the secrets you’ve kept from me over the years, why this one? I thought maybe she did what did because of me. Don’t you realize I needed this?”

  “Because it hurt too much,” said Grand-mère. Like me, she was crying, gasping and wheezing. “I lost her
. I couldn’t do anything to stop her. By the time her letter arrived, it was too late. She was gone. Please don’t be angry with me. All I’ve ever wanted to do was to protect you from the pain I felt.”

  “I’m not angry, Grand-mère,” I said. “I’m hurt and I’m confused and I’m upset.”

  “Ma chérie, I understand. Please, forgive me.”

  Forgiveness. Perhaps I would have found out all these truths if I’d come back to Champvert sooner. But I hadn’t. And I realized my grand-mère shouldn’t be the one asking for forgiveness. It was me. I gripped her hand. “Grand-mère, please forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being here for you when you needed me.”

  “You are here now, ma chérie,” she said.

  * * *

  Midnight. I sat in the window seat, looking up toward the stars, wondering if my mother was up there looking down on me, wondering about the stars I’d always craved. My cell phone buzzed. I looked down at the caller ID, expecting it to be Walter, but it was a text from O’Shea.

  Dug in a little bit more with my foodie spies. Found out Trevor Smith is one of Eric’s investors. He’s going down. Bad news—the Times isn’t going to write my retraction. Good news—they want me to write an op-ed. I’ve written it and it’ll run in a few weeks. Bad news—Eric’s restaurant opened to glorious reviews. Good news—Trevor Smith wrote the review. Everything is being sorted out. Think about my offer, Sophie.

  I was thinking about his offer, and it pulled my head and my heart in different directions. I bolted to Grand-mère’s office and pulled up the review of Blackbird in the Times. On the home page, there was a picture of Eric, with the headline: MICHELIN WILL SOON BE KNOCKING ON ERIC ROMANO’S DOOR.

  “What the hell?” I said, muttering to myself.

  My eyes scanned the page, words jumping off the screen like “two-starred master chef,” “culinary masterpiece,” and “seasonal seductions.” But the slap to the face came when I locked onto the photo of the meal they were raving about. It wasn’t Eric’s recipe; it was mine, the one for the filets of daurade—every layer of every ingredient I’d used all exactly the same, the garnish complete with edible flowers like lavender. I seethed with anger. There was only one person at the château who could have been responsible for such betrayal, and she’d be returning in one week.