After hanging up I hurry to the kitchen. Hosting Easter dinner was possibly a rash idea on my part, considering how perpetually exhausted I am, but I wanted to mark my one-year anniversary in France with something special. “You can sleep when you’re dead,” Kat always used to say, before she got sick and this kind of wisecrack was still funny. But she was right. Sometimes you have to go for it.
My original plan was to prepare a classic American Easter dinner with baked ham, scalloped potatoes, and steamed asparagus. But the big honey-baked hams I grew up with don’t exist in France, where most people serve a leg of lamb for Easter. I’ve never even had lamb, much less prepared it, but Manu assures me I can manage. He has more faith in me than I have in myself sometimes.
At least we can still have American-style potatoes and asparagus. And the rest of the meal will also be true-blue American. We’ll have the green salad before the main course, not after it the way the French do. Yesterday, I made Parker House dinner rolls, from scratch, and decorated Easter eggs for our centerpiece. Dessert will be homemade strawberry shortcake with whipped cream. This one meal took days of prep work, but I’m on track.
“Amy! T’es là?”
Sophie sweeps into the kitchen. She’s early, which is better than being late (with Sophie, it’s one or the other).
“Hey.” I was putting Catherine into her baby seat, but now I unstrap her. “Come in. Catherine just woke up.”
Sophie has settled down quite a bit since her return to Paris last September, unless you count a string of questionable boyfriends. We’re supposed to meet the latest one today.
“Super. I have brought her une nouvelle petite robe adorable. She will look très jolie.”
I nod. I found out Sophie speaks English as well as I do, maybe better, but half her words always come out in French. Actually, I’m starting to do that a little too. It feels natural.
“You spoil her,” I say.
“It is mon plaisir.” Sophie not only gave Catherine all of her own baby trousseau but continues to buy new things. I’ve lost count of how many adorable outfits my child owns.
“Well,” I reply, “I’m glad it’s also your pleasure to give her a bath and dress her. I’ve got tons to do in the kitchen. And I was hoping to work a little on the menu for American Lunch.”
She plucks Catherine from my arms. Sophie is still not my favorite person, and at first, I hesitated to let her take Catherine out of my sight. But I have to hand it to her. She really adores Catherine and seems to have a knack with babies. “American quoi?”
“Didn’t Manu tell you? That’s the name we thought of for our new catering business.”
She kisses Catherine’s forehead and blinks her enormous round eyes. “Ah. Oui. I believe he did tell me.”
Manu is still a tender subject between us. When he and I announced our engagement, Margaret was thrilled. Sophie was… meh. I don’t think it’s because she wanted him for herself. I do think she liked having the option though.
“Well, we’re going to feature typically American sandwiches. Ham on rye. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato on pumpernickel. Meat loaf on sourdough.” Sophie obviously doesn’t care, but I tell her anyway. It’s what’s on my mind. When Catherine keeps me up at night I have time to cogitate and plan and even play around with recipes. I love the thought that, instead of bringing French food to Americans—as was my original idea with Fun French Food—I’m bringing American food to the French.
“I take le bébé upstairs now, yes?”
“Yes, thanks. You know where everything is.”
I start the white sauce for the scalloped potatoes, noodling ideas for American Lunch while stirring the milk into the roux. The insane success of hamburgers in Paris is what gave us the inspiration. If the French can love burgers so much, why not the rest of the American sandwich universe? We even dream of one day using the money from Kat’s estate to open up a little café. But we’re taking things slow. The plan is to phase out of the lunchtime catering biz and phase into American Lunch.
“Salut.” Manu is back, his arms full of flowers. All in yellow and white.
“Perfect timing! Everything’s organized. Sophie is upstairs fussing over Catherine.”
“Bon. It is good for them both.”
As I pour the white sauce over the potatoes—earlier I used a mandolin to slice them into perfectly thin ovals—I change the subject. “I’ve been thinking about American Lunch. What about doing tortilla chips and salsa instead of potato chips with the sandwiches?” My most recent three a.m. idea was to bring in more of my Arizona heritage.
Manu shrugs. “Why not? It will be exotique.”
“I could do my own salsa. Maybe even grow our own tomatoes? There’s tons of space in the garden.”
At this, he sets aside the flowers he was unwrapping and cups my face in his hands. “One thing at a time, Aimée, n’est-ce pas? First we have to find sources for the bread.”
“True. I know.”
Bread sourcing is still a work-in-progress. The first time I said the word “pumpernickel” to Manu he thought I was making it up. We both still learn new things from each other every day.
The doorbell chimes. It’s Margaret, right on time.
“I have the funniest story to tell,” she announces, handing Manu a green sack containing a bottle of champagne. She doesn’t say bonjour first, or do the double cheek kiss thing. She’s red-faced and breathing heavily.
Manu glances at me as he helps Margaret off with her coat and leads her to a chair. “Have a seat,” he says to her. “Tell us.”
We still worry about Margaret, though she’s much more even-keeled than last September. I think it helps that she’s cut back on her medication. She comes over for lunch at least once a week, and she and I are closer than ever, despite Sophie’s near constant presence. In some ways she’s better than an actual mother because we don’t have any parent/child baggage to overcome.
She rejects the chair. “We can talk while we dress the table. You will laugh!”
She hustles us into the dining room, where I’ve set out stacks of china, crystal, and flatware, ready to be arranged. “You’ll never guess who rang me up.” Her eyes are gleaming.
“Called you? Who?” Manu asks.
“Hervé!” Margaret claps her hands with delight. “Or, I suppose I should say, Jean.”
“Seriously? No way!” I put down the napkins I was starting to fold. Since Hervé disappeared that night after the big showdown, no one’s heard a word from him. Not even Madame and Monsieur, who are still storing some clothes and other stuff he left behind. They’re too nice for their own good.
Manu frowns. He could never, as I do, regard Hervé as a subject for amusement. “What does he want?”
Margaret picks up a shining silver spoon and gazes into it. “Do you remember how on Amy’s birthday last year he told us about a vintage wine business he wanted to start?”
Of course I remember. But I’m surprised Margaret does. She retains only sketchy memories of the tumultuous week of Sophie’s return. It was a crazy few days for her. For me too. For all of us.
She arranges the spoon just so beside a place setting. “Well, he has done so. Started the wine business, I mean. And it is going swimmingly, he says. So he was calling to inquire if I would care to invest. ‘To take it to the next level.’ Those were his very words.”
“Mais non. C’est pas possible!” Manu’s eyes are almost as big and round as Sophie’s, who has just carried Catherine in and is placing her in her baby seat.
“Oh, but darling!” Margaret is laughing so hard she can barely get out her words. “With Hervé all is possible.”
I take her by the hands to force her to stand still. “Is that the name he’s still using? What can he be thinking? Surely he knows you know his real identity.”
Margaret winks at me. “Perhaps he believes I am so dotty I have forgotten.”
She squeezes my fingers, and I squeeze back. It’s the first time Margaret has been
able to allude to her breakdown.
“Et alors, what did you tell him?” Manu asks.
“I wished him the best, naturally, and told him I was certain his venture would be a marvelous success without my help.” Her face is bright pink.
“Tiens, Maman.” Sophie is holding out a bottle of Evian. “I have brought you water.”
Well, that’s something. She’s being thoughtful.
These past months, I’ve tried to see Sophie through Margaret’s eyes. She did have a tough time in Morocco, then the drug rehab dragged on for weeks. The only part of her story that didn’t turn out to be one hundred percent true was how she got the knife wound. The kidnapper/fake husband didn’t do that—Sophie herself did, so he would be forced to take her to a hospital and she could carry out her escape plan. I never would have given her credit for such a gutsy move. But she may have a measure of Margaret’s gumption. In the end, I think she’ll do the right thing. Probably after doing a bunch of wrong things first.
The table is set. The flowers are arranged. The salad gets tossed. The lamb and potatoes and buttery dinner rolls come out of the oven.
“Ça sent bon,” Manu says. That smells good.
“Yes, and everything looks splendid!” Margaret has taken the place of honor at the head of the table. Manu and I are seated on Margaret’s left. Sophie is at her right. The boyfriend didn’t show up, but Catherine is parked beside her on the floor in her baby seat—my little girl’s first dinner party. She’s wearing a pink and white striped seersucker dress with matching bonnet and white cotton (not nylon) anklets. White socks seem to be a family tradition worth carrying on. I think about my mother a lot these days, now that I’m a mother myself. I try to understand what she went through. I tell myself not to repeat her mistakes.
“Ça va?” Manu is looking at me.
“Oui. Ça va.”
We all watch in silence, even Catherine, as Manu pops open the bottle of champagne Margaret brought.
He looks at me. “Du champagne?”
“Yes, please.” It will be my first taste of alcohol since Catherine was born, and I love champagne. “It’s a celebration.”
He pours everyone a full glass. We’re using Madame’s best Baccarat champagne flutes, so fragile and thin they scare me a little.
Margaret jumps to her feet. “Wait! I want to make a toast.” Her face is pink again. “Here’s to babies, and weddings, and miraculous returns, and fake barons, and families, and new beginnings.”
She raises her sparkling glass to each of us in turn, including little Catherine, who is saying “ma-ma-ma-ma” and pumping her fists. “May the best of our past be the worst of our future!”
Manu touches his glass to mine. “Santé.”
“Santé.” I take a sip. It tastes like stars and diamonds.
Find out how Amy’s Parisian adventure began in The Paris Effect!
a note from k.s.r. burns
Dear Reader,
Thanks for reading Paris Ever After! I hope you enjoyed it. Did you know that Paris Ever After is actually the sequel to my first novel, The Paris Effect? It’s where you’ll find the full story of how Amy landed in Paris, as well as what happened in those mysterious catacombs.
If you did enjoy the story, I would LOVE it if you’d leave a review on Amazon. Just a sentence or two saying what you liked about the book can help other readers decide to pick it up. I’d be so grateful.
Want to stay up to date on my news, sales, and new releases? You can sign up for my newsletter here: https://bit.ly/Parisaholic. I don’t send out many newsletters, to be honest. But it’s a great way to keep in touch, and you’ll even get a free ebook of my short story, You Don’t Want to Know, when you sign up!
You can find out more behind-the-scenes info by visiting http://www.ksrburns.com. And while you’re there, feel free to drop me a note. I love hearing from readers. It’s the best part of the job!
A bientôt,
Karen
P.S. Did the book leave you hungry for madeleines? Try making some yourself! They’re pretty easy, and I’ve included a recipe in the back of this book. There’s also a book club discussion guide and a sneak peek of The Paris Effect!
amy’s favorite parisian madeleines
from Chef Didier Quémener
5 oz. butter
4 oz. eggs
5 oz. unbleached flour
½ tablespoon baking powder
3½ oz. sugar
1 oz. eucalyptus or acacia honey
3 tablespoons whole milk
1 teaspoon lemon juice
Preparation time: 15 minutes + 8 hours in refrigerator
Baking time: 5 to 7 minutes
Preparation:
Place butter in a saucepan and melt on low heat (do not exceed 165 degrees Fahrenheit).
In a small bowl, slightly whisk eggs.
In a different bowl, sift flour and baking powder together. Add sugar and mix.
Pour milk into a new bowl, then add honey and mix. Add eggs and lemon juice, then mix. Add dry ingredients mixture (flour, baking powder, and sugar), then whisk thoroughly and vigorously for 2-3 minutes. Add warm butter and whisk delicately.
Place in refrigerator in a well-sealed container for 8 hours.
Baking:
Take batter out of refrigerator. Preheat oven to 475 degrees Fahrenheit.
Butter and flour bottom of madeleine baking pan.
With a wooden spatula, work batter for 5 minutes.
Using a tablespoon or a piping bag (which does the best job), place about 1 ounce of batter in each individual mold.
Bake for 5 to 7 minutes, being sure to never open the oven door while your madeleines are baking. Bon appétit!
For more delicious French recipes, check out:
Chef Q in Paris: The Fall Collection
Chef Q in Paris: The Winter Collection
book club discussion guide
1. Amy was extremely lucky to find a home with Margaret in Paris. Some might say crazy lucky. But who do you think benefited the most from this arrangement—Amy or Margaret?
2. When Amy gets positive confirmation that she’s pregnant, she takes numerous steps to contact William with the news (phone calls, email, texts, etc.) but he ignores all her attempts. Should she have tried harder? What else could she have done?
3. Six months after Kat’s death Amy still misses her, though her grief is less acute than at first. Do you think Amy will always mourn Kat to some degree? How long do you think grieving generally lasts? When do the memories start to become sources of sweetness rather than pain?
4. At the beginning of the book Amy believes she has resolved all her food and body image issues. But what’s your take? Could these problems reappear at some point in the future? What advice would you have for her?
5. When Amy and Sophie meet, they do not like each other (to say the least). What are the chances they will eventually become friends? Have you ever met someone whom you found really unpleasant at first and then later grew to like? Or are first impressions lasting impressions?
6. Amy is surprised by more than one person by the end of the novel. Do you think she was too gullible all along? Would you have been quicker to pick up on clues that Amy missed?
7. What are your thoughts about Amy’s friendship with Manu as the story progresses? What does he bring to her life and her Parisian experience?
8. What role does money play in Amy’s life and in her relationships with others? Is it important to her—why or why not?
9. When we first see Amy, she has been living in France for several months and is still definitely in the honeymoon period regarding the wonderfulness of Paris. Do you think her views of Paris will change and she’ll become more cynical?
10. When we’re in a completely different culture, our good sense that tells us something is wrong might not work as well. If you were in Amy’s place would you have found yourself in similar situations? What are ways you use to avoid getting conned in an unfamiliar culture?
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11. What do you think of the characters Madame and Monsieur? Do you believe, like Amy, that there are still kind, decent people in the world?
12. What do you think of the outcome of William and Amy’s relationship? Were you happy or disappointed? Do you think their relationship will ever change?
An excerpt from Chapter One of The Paris Effect:
I leave the Honda parked in front of the Starbucks and walk over to Fifth Avenue, pausing in front of a jewelry store to scrutinize my profile in the reflection of a dusty plate glass window. This morning my jeans buttoned with difficulty, but they did button. Rule number five of the perpetual diet: Put on something a little tight in the morning, when you are at your thinnest, and you will be less likely to overeat during the day.
Of late, the rules have been swarming around in my brain like fire ants.
Fifth Avenue in Scottsdale is one tacky tourist shop after another, featuring objects I am embarrassed by—do visitors to our state think we all decorate our homes with bronze tabletop statuettes of bucking broncos and stylized pastels of Navajos wrapped in blankets? But two blocks later I halt in front of a different kind of window display. No bucking broncos here. No silver squash-blossom necklaces, no white ten-gallon cowboy hats, no green jars of prickly pear jelly. Just a single wooden easel bearing a single object: a three-foot-square watercolor of the Sacré-Coeur.
I know it’s the Sacré-Coeur because I have read a ton of books about Paris. A passage from a guidebook pops into my head: “The basilica of Sacré-Coeur, set atop a hill in Montmartre, was built as penance for the crimes of the 1871 Paris Commune.”
Which has always struck me as wrong. The penance part, not the crimes part. After all, look at it. Penitence was never on the minds of the people who built this building. It’s jazzy and carefree. It’s a wedding dress of a church, a frosted cupcake of a church, a Southern belle of a church. A party church. Not the least bit penitential.
Paris Ever After: A Novel Page 26