I begin to sidle toward the door. “Madame. Please. May I ask—is Hervé still here?”
“Ah.” She looks up at me with a smile. “You perhaps doubt what I tell you. And why not? This story is all very, how do you say, ridicule.”
I nod. Ridiculous is absolutely the right word. Everything that’s happened today has been ridicule to the max. Nevertheless, I need to see Hervé. One look into his face and I’ll know the truth.
“He prepares to depart.” Madame waves her hand at the door as if to say, “Go ahead, go find out for yourself.”
I dash out of the room and down the spiral stairs. As I thump onto the final landing, I spot Hervé charging across the foyer. He’s wearing a wrinkled navy blue raincoat I’ve never seen before and pulling an enormous rolling suitcase behind him. The surly servant follows, a large tan duffle bag in her arms. I don’t know if she’s going, too, or is just helping Hervé with his bags.
“Hervé! Wait up.”
He doesn’t wait up. Instead he yanks open the front door with enough force to send the shining brass knob crashing against the interior wall, and plunges out into the night.
“Hey!” I sprint across the black and white checkerboard tiles. “What’s happening? Where are you going?”
Clouds cover the moon, but golden light streaming from the open door of the house illuminates the two fleeing figures. It’s like a scene from an old movie—the elongated cast shadows, the echoing clatter of footsteps. I imagine violins playing minor chords.
Only when I yell “Hey!” a second time does Hervé slow and glance over his shoulder.
It’s then that I halt my pursuit. He’s hardly recognizable. Hervé—or, I guess I should say, Jean—looks inches shorter and years older than just an hour ago. His whole appearance is beaten down, defeated, broken, like the middle-aged men I see drinking cheap cognac at the Café de la Poste at eight in the morning.
“You’re not a real baron, are you?” I shout as he disappears into the inky black mouth of the wisteria tunnel. When he doesn’t look back, I know it’s true.
In retrospect, everything makes perfect sense. All this time Hervé, with his aristocratic sneer and almost comic snobbery, has been playacting at being a baron. Margaret and I totally fell for it. People believe what they want to believe, Dad always used to say.
The only person who may have suspected the truth was Manu. It would explain his deep dislike of Hervé and vice versa. Here I thought Hervé disdained Manu, looked down on him. But I bet it was really fear. He sensed Manu saw through his act. What a crazy twist of events. I can’t wait to tell him about it. Surely Sophie wouldn’t begrudge me that.
“Mademoiselle?”
I turn. I was lingering out in the empty courtyard, appreciating the crisp air and the solitude, but now Monsieur is standing behind me, silhouetted in the doorway.
“I most sincerely apologize,” he says. “You must be at some inconvenience.”
Monsieur’s English is great. In fact, his speech is as flawlessly British as Margaret’s. I picture him as a young man going to school in London to perfect his English and returning here to ever after wow people with his BBC-like vowels.
“Please.” He holds out his hand to me. “Come in.”
I take a last lungful of cool night air and follow him into the house.
“Monsieur Martin tells me you knew nothing of his—pretense. Is that true?” Monsieur asks.
My cheeks burn with mortification. “Yes. It’s true. I thought this was his place. We weren’t close friends. I didn’t know him that well at all.”
I keep stressing this because the last thing I want is for these people—the real baron and baroness—to think I was sleeping with Hervé. Or Jean. Whatever.
“The woman with him,” I add. “Your cook?”
Monsieur grimaces. “Odile. His wife.”
I’m taking in this new factoid when Madame, who followed me downstairs, glides to Monsieur’s side and links her arm through his. He looks down at her, clasps her hand, and kisses her forehead. I wonder if I’ll ever be part of a sweet old couple like this.
It’s unlikely. Not at the rate I’m going.
“Oh. I see. Well,” I say, heading for the staircase, “I’m so sorry for the intrusion. But you don’t have to worry. I’m leaving right now.”
That’s all I want—to get the hell out of here as soon and as gracefully as I can. I’ll figure out where I’m going later.
“Mais ma chère enfant!” Madame holds up her small, white palm like a traffic cop. Again, I notice how thin she is. Margaret would admire her slenderness, but in my opinion, she could stand to put on a couple of pounds. “You must be fatiguée.” She glances again at my baby bump.
It’s funny because Madame is obviously the one who’s fatigued. Her face is the color of rice. Her pale eyes have a hollowness behind them.
“Please, you must stay here for tonight,” she adds. “It is late.”
I’m extremely tempted, but I shake my head. “That’s most kind of you. I appreciate the thought. But I couldn’t impose.”
After all, I’ve just met these people. Sweet as they seem, they’re complete strangers. My mother always told me not to make a nuisance of myself. But as I’m about to explain that I have to be on my way, my stomach growls. Loudly.
Not again. Despite the fish soup and tomato salad, not to mention the huge omelet lunch I forced down earlier, plus part of a raspberry tartlet, I’m starving.
Monsieur chuckles. “Ah. You perhaps would like something to eat. Oui?”
Food. It’s been my Achilles heel my whole life. Loving it, hating it, fearing it, and obsessing over it have taken up much of my time and energy. Too much. These hang-ups have begun to fade away under Margaret’s influence and as my priorities realign around Catherine. Still, I guess it’s fitting that hunger—simple, human hunger—is now the subject that breaks the ice.
“Bon.” Madame smiles, showing dimples. She must have been pretty when she was young. She still is. “We, too, would like a bite. Let us go into the kitchen and see what is there. Then you may tell us all about yourself.”
Before I can think of another word of protest, she takes my hot hand into her cool one and leads me across the foyer, down a short corridor, through a swinging door, and into the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.
“Whoa. What a fantastic kitchen.” I run my fingertips over a granite countertop. Admire the oak cabinetry. Note the double sinks.
The kitchen is spacious enough for an antique oak breakfast table and four chairs, one of which Madame now sinks into, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. Monsieur looks around the kitchen, seeming a bit lost. So I head for the refrigerator. It’s full size, not the usual dinky counter-height model you see in Paris. Yet the only items on its shining glass shelves are a dozen eggs, a couple of fist-sized chunks of butter, and two unopened cartons of thick cream.
No onions or garlic. No jam or cheese or yogurt. Not even a jar of mustard or olives. After months in Paris I’m used to the French custom of daily grocery shopping, but it’s astonishing how little food is here. Especially since my meal with Hervé had been interrupted—had he not planned to serve anything after the soup? Maybe the duffle bag Hervé’s wife carried was full of purloined edibles. It seems petty, but today anything feels possible.
I open cupboard doors, discovering impressive quantities of china and crystal, but I find no canned goods, no bags of rice or packages of pasta, no breakfast cereals, no crackers or chips or nuts. Not even a spare bottle of fish soup. Only a little oil and vinegar, some sugar, and a Tetley box containing five tea bags. A lower cabinet holds a sack of flour and a few other baking supplies.
Madame and Monsieur watch me in silence. I get the impression they don’t spend a lot of time in their cuisine, which is crazy. This place is awesome. It’s five times the size of Margaret’s, with workspace for two or three cooks. It has an actual dishwasher, another uncommon sight in Paris. Pots and pans hang from a
stainless-steel rack mounted on one wall. A rustic iron chandelier, festooned with ropes of clear glass beads, dangles from the ceiling. All this is lovely, but what’s even more fabulous is the five-burner cast-iron La Cornue range with side-by-side dual ovens.
“Well, we can always have scrambled eggs,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the range. It’s the size of an executive desk and is the most beautiful shade of periwinkle blue I’ve ever seen.
“Can we?” Madame’s voice is small. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Ça va, cherie?” Monsieur reaches for her hand and cradles it as if it were a Fabergé egg. “T’es fatiguée?” he murmurs to her. Tears prick my eyes. This man and woman are old enough to have been married forty or fifty years, yet they still cherish each other. They still care.
I guess it’s how marriage is supposed to be, yet so seldom is. I try not to think of Manu and wonder what might have been.
“Let me cook you a light supper,” I say. “It won’t be fancy, but it will be hot and nourishing and will make us all feel better.”
Monsieur’s face brightens. “Bravo, Mademoiselle! C’est une excellente idée.” He jumps to his feet and holds out his hands to his wife. “Come, cherie. Let us allow this young lady to work.”
I have to hand it to this couple. They arrive home from an extended trip to find a strange woman in their house but are still game to set her loose in the kitchen. I’m amazed at how trusting they are. At the same time, I’m relieved they’re not planning to sit there and watch me. It freaks me out when people hover while I cook. William did it all the time, doling out advice, remarks, opinions, suggestions, and criticism. The last couple of years of our marriage I always made sure to get dinner completely done before he came home from work. “Why do you let him bully you?” Kat asked once.
Excellent question. Maybe I just didn’t know how a marriage was supposed to be. If I’d grown up with Madame and Monsieur as examples I might have realized that things like respect and solicitude are the rocks on which lasting relationships are built.
Or perhaps these are not the foundations, but the fruits, of love.
Anyway, I’m delighted to take charge of the kitchen. Especially one as divine as this. But first I get out my phone and again try to call Manu. Still no answer. Maybe he turned off his phone and went to bed. Maybe he’s spending the night with Sophie.
I place my phone face down on the table. Well, tomorrow is Monday, our second-busiest day. I can tell him all about my adventures while we do the deliveries. It’ll make for a good distraction from Sophie-related, or William-related, subjects. All subjects, come to think of it.
After washing my hands, I open the refrigerator and get out the eggs, butter, and cream.
I’m searching for a bowl when I notice the kitchen has a back exit—a narrow glass door, partly concealed in an alcove and opening onto yet another cobblestone courtyard. I can’t resist unlocking it and stepping outside. The snap of cool autumn air soothes me. While I’m breathing in the freshness, I notice a half circle of waist-high flowerpots. The pots are made of white stone and filled not with geraniums and ivy, as one would expect, but with culinary plants.
It’s funny. Neither Hervé nor his wife struck me as back-to-the-land types. Yet earlier he was weeding, and here someone has cultivated masses of chives, parsley, thyme, tarragon, mint, and a few herbs I don’t recognize. Even better and more amazing, three of the pots hold flourishing tomato plants. Late-season tomatoes the size of tennis balls weigh down the leafy branches.
Score. Halved and broiled tomatoes, seasoned with fresh herbs, will be perfect served alongside my special recipe of super creamy scrambled eggs.
I’m reentering the house, my hands full of freshly harvested produce, when Monsieur pokes his head into the kitchen.
“Mademoiselle? May I trouble you to prepare a spot of tea for my wife?” His expression—humble and apologetic—reminds me of Dad when he interrupted my homework to ask for help buttoning his shirt or tying his shoes. Dad stayed as independent as he could as long as he could, but eventually his MS meant I had to take over everything. I never minded. Being needed can be awesome. I was lucky enough to learn that at an early age.
“Of course,” I tell him.
I set the tomatoes and herbs in the sink, switch on the electric kettle, and ponder the problem of bread. In France, a meal without bread is unthinkable. Unfortunately, bakeries are closed at this hour, and I didn’t see any bread in the kitchen.
But we do have flour. We even have a packet of levure chimique, the French version of baking powder. And we have tons of cream.
Which means—ta-da—I can make cream biscuits. I hum a few bars of Bach as I pull a tea set from the top shelf of a corner curio cabinet. Madame and Monsieur, certain to be familiar with scrambled eggs, have probably never had anything remotely resembling cream biscuits. In fact, quick breads like biscuits and scones are not typically French, making me wonder what the levure chimique is doing here in the first place. But I don’t care. Light and tender cream biscuits will be the perfect accompaniment to my eggs.
Monsieur returns as I’m pouring boiling water into the teapot. “Mademoiselle. You are an angel.”
I grin at him. Dad called me “angel.” It was his pet name for me. Here I am in a foreign country, far from my humble upbringing in inner city Phoenix, but suddenly, I feel totally comfortable, totally at home.
“Is everything all right?” I ask as I fit the lid onto the pot, which is English bone china—I checked earlier. “With Madame?”
“She is just tired. But this will help,” Monsieur says as he picks up the tray.
The tea smells tempting, but it’s time to start the meal. I approach the range with both reverence and trepidation. It’s the first La Cornue I’ve seen in real life. But I’ve studied enough cooking magazines and websites to be pretty sure it will have at least one burner with an ultra-low simmer setting. Perfect for my slow scramble.
Before tackling eggs or biscuits, however, I power down my phone. It doesn’t look like Manu will call back tonight, and I certainly don’t want to hear from William. Not now. This is probably the last meal I’ll ever cook in Paris. I intend to enjoy every single minute of it.
The biscuits are a little tricky because I need to guess at the proportions of flour, salt, and baking powder. Sometimes I miss my American measuring cups and spoons. But bread is “not rocket science,” as William used to say. That was when we were first married, and he was still being patient with me in the kitchen. I bite my lip as I add a pinch of sugar to the flour mixture, to bring out flavor, and pour in enough of the cream to form a soft dough. William never liked cream biscuits. They were my thing. I prefer them to the regular kind because you don’t need to work in hard, cold butter and because they are so meltingly tender. They are the fairy princesses of biscuits.
Since I can’t imagine a French kitchen possessing a biscuit cutter, I don’t bother to look for one. Madame and Monsieur may not even know that biscuits are usually round. I simply pat the dough into a rectangle, cut it into diamond shapes, set them shoulder to shoulder on a baking sheet, and slip the pan into the oven. Usually it’s hard to put a meal together in a strange kitchen, but here, everything is in the place you’d expect it to be. I’m in the zone. For the eggs, I select a cast-iron skillet from the rack on the wall, throw in a slab of butter, and switch on the simmer burner. While the butter melts I whisk the eggs until the whites and yokes are just combined, dumping in a glug of cream. As the butter begins to foam, I pour in the egg mixture, toss in some chives, and double-check that the flame is at the lowest setting. Now, all I have to do is stir.
Soon, the table is set, the biscuits are two inches high and golden brown, and the eggs are fluffy and soft. I’m removing the perfectly browned tomatoes from the broiler when Madame and Monsieur appear at the door.
“Mademoiselle?” Monsieur holds up a bottle of pink crémant, a kind of light champagne, and two bottles of sparkling water. Badoit, my fa
vorite.
“Come in,” I say. “Please. Supper is ready.”
“Whatever you have created, Mademoiselle, smells exquisite.” Madame winks at me as she sits down.
I’m proud of how inviting the table looks, set with a blue-flowered Provençal cotton tablecloth and bright yellow china. Hervé (I will never get used to calling him Jean) was right when he mentioned that the kitchen breakfast table was more “convivial” than the stately dining room.
“Badoit?” Monsieur does not wait for an answer. He fills my glass with sparkling water, then refills it after I immediately drink it down. He and Madame exchange glances as he serves them a glass of crémant each. I see now how his baronial manners are the real thing, and Hervé’s were but a cheap imitation.
As we eat, Madame and Monsieur quiz me about my background, how I came to Paris, where I’ve been staying, and how I met Hervé. They’re good listeners, and I recount my whole story. I leave out only the parts about William’s affair with Samantha and my discovery of the blue baby pajamas. That wound is too fresh, too sordid.
Eventually they get around to inquiring, with great delicacy, when my baby is due.
“Four more months.”
I can hardly believe it myself. Still, there’s time to get my life in order. There has to be.
“Félicitations,” Madame says. “Sadly, we were not blessed with children.” She breaks a biscuit in half and gazes in the direction of the courtyard, perhaps envisioning the toddlers who didn’t play there.
I would hug her if I dared. Madame possesses all of Margaret’s elegance but none of her emotional fragility. That’s why I’ve changed my mind about refusing her kind offer to stay here tonight. Even Kat would approve of this decision. “Listen to your gut,” she used to nag me. Never thinking my gut was much of a guide, I always resisted.
But in Paris, of all the crazy places, I’ve learned how to trust people. After a rocky start with Margaret (recall the sleepy tea incident) I found I could rely on her to be loving and generous. While I fell for Hervé’s baron act, I did suspect all along he was someone to be wary of and managed to keep him at arm’s length.
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