The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,108
over my shoulder. I turned, raising the plaque triumphantly. “We did it!”
“No, you did it,” said Phillipa.
“We’re a team,” I said.
“I’ll take credit when it’s due,” said Jane.
“I couldn’t have done this without either of you,” I said with a laugh, hugging both of them. “I have to go tell Grand-mère. Can you tell Rémi and Jean-Marc I’ll be right back?”
“Jean-Marc? The mechanic from Sauqueuse?” asked Phillipa, squinting in their direction. “Why is he here?”
I’d forgotten Phillipa and Jane’s parents lived in the next town over. Surely, Phillipa took her beat-up car to his garage.
“Long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about him later.”
I raced up to my grand-mère’s room, opened the door, and held out the plaque from La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. “I wanted you to see this.”
Her eyes glistened with proud tears. “Ma chérie, I knew you could do it. You must have Rémi take my plaque down and put yours up at the front gate.”
“No, Grand-mère,” I said.
“It’s your château now, and it’s your kitchen. You are the Grand Chef now and the master of this home,” she said. “If you want to keep my plaque in memory of me, hang it in your office.”
“You mean your office,” I said.
“Not anymore.”
“Grand-mère—”
“Darling, be like the woman O’Shea called you in his article. Be fearless.”
“But I’m scared, Grand-mère,” I said, slumping. “I don’t want to lose you. Not now—not when I’m getting to really know you.”
“I know. But I’ll always be here for you, even when I’m gone. We have to face what’s coming with strength.” She closed her eyes and squeezed my hand, her head lolling slightly to the side. “The ring you wear around your neck?”
I sucked back my sobs, wanting to be strong for her. What was supposed to be a celebratory day had taken a turn. “It was yours, wasn’t it? My mother stole it?”
“It was mine,” she said. “And she did. I’d like to hold it one last time. It’s quite beautiful.”
I undid the clasp of my necklace, slipped off the ring, and tucked it into her hand. She looked longingly out the window. “I did grow to love your grandfather and my life here,” she said wistfully.
“Grand-mère, there’s something I need to tell you,” I said.
“Oui, ma chérie.”
“I met Jean-Marc Bourret, my father,” I said. “He’s downstairs now with Rémi in the gardens.”
“If you’re wondering if I told Rémi it was a good idea to invite him here, I said it was,” she said. “And what do you think of this man?”
“He has kind eyes. He’s had a tough life, it seems,” I said, thinking that of course my grand-mère had been in on the plan. Nothing escaped her. “I’d like to get to know him. He’s, um, he’s my family.”
“As you should,” she said, her eyes locking onto mine. “It was important for me to make amends with everything I’d done in the past before I move on to the other side. Please offer Monsieur Bourret my sincerest apologies.” She gripped my hand. “Je t’aime, ma chérie.”
“Je sais, Grand-mère” (I know, Grand-mère), I said. “Je t’aime aussi.”
One of the machines buzzed, jolting my heart along with it. Agnès scurried over, pushing by me, her smile feeble. “Sophie, I’ve got to get her stabilized. There’s nothing more you can do here. Please, go join the party.”
I agreed, but it didn’t feel like a celebration anymore. My grandmother’s words felt like a final adieu. With the plaque in hand, I headed to my room. Instead of joining the others, there was something important I needed to do. I rolled out my mother’s suitcase, unzipped it, and unpacked her things, hanging her dresses in my closet and placing her jewelry box on my dresser.
I was going to kiss any remnants of past pain goodbye before I had to deal with any more of it.
32
sad goodbyes and happy beginnings
Grand-mère Odette’s funeral would take place three days later, right at the château. In between sniffs, sobs, and sudden breakdowns, Rémi, Clothilde, les dames, Gustave, Séb, Phillipa, Jane, and I were going to cook up a celebratory feast—exactly how Grand-mère would have wanted it. I didn’t wear her poppy-print apron, but tucked it away in the closet, wanting to guard her vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg scent, which was already fading. We stood in the kitchen.
“We are cooking everything in her notebooks,” I’d said, and then quickly corrected myself. “Everything we have ingredients for. She’d kill us if we cooked out of season.”